


Blue Interregnum

by pesky_poltergeist



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Bullying, College AU, F/M, Gen, Ghost King AU, Ghost King Danny, Ghost King Danny Fenton, Identity Reveal, Nobody knows AU, PTSD, Psychic AU, Suicidal Ideation, Violence, ghost king, ghost language, ghost royalty au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21753835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pesky_poltergeist/pseuds/pesky_poltergeist
Summary: For all Sam's attempts at showing the world who she is, she's never felt understood. Danny's never trusted anyone in his life. Tucker's never been very good at opening up to potential friends. They never met in high school, but when a war for the crown in the Ghost Zone threatens to spill out past the borders of the afterlife into Amity Park, they find themselves the only ones they can trust in college.
Relationships: Danny Fenton & Vlad Masters, Danny Fenton/Sam Manson
Comments: 139
Kudos: 271





	1. Chapter 1

Sam didn’t really like to pry into other people’s personal lives, but she could make an exception.

It wasn’t that she was uninterested in other people. She was just a very private person, and she felt it was only polite to extend the same courtesy to others. Never mind that everyone else thought she was cold and indifferent, or that she was affecting that atmosphere to support her goth persona. It _was_ true that she didn’t care what other people thought.

Well, usually. Again, exceptions could be made.

The exception was Danny.

Danny was unassuming, wearing a black zip-up sweater, a worn-out NASA T-shirt, and jeans with holes in the knees and other damage. He had black hair in a long crew cut that got to be rather unkempt at the front, barely kept in place with a gentle application of gel. His most striking features were his icy grey-blue eyes and a faded scar like forked lightning under his chin and down his neck. She didn’t even know his last name. She hadn’t asked. It wasn’t like her to ask: such fell into the realm of personal information that could be divulged when the other party felt like it. But she was going to have to learn quick how to gather this sort of information, because _by God,_ she was going to figure him out.

All of this passed through her mind in a matter of minutes, roiling her already stormy demeanor. Danny looked up at her and made a face, then pointedly looked back at his writing. Was she glaring? Shit, she was glaring. She didn’t mean to.

Now staring, that was fully intended. How could she not? The guy was taking his notes in Necrotic, the Language of the Dead. He was pretty much asking to be stared at. Never mind that the notes were for their English class. No, she thought, then squinted at his paper. _Especially_ notice that he was taking his notes for English in Necrotic. Various English sentences were rewritten on his notes, indented and twice as large as anything else, then highlighted with arrows and Necrotic explanations scrawled in the margins.

If she didn’t know any better, she’d almost think that Necrotic was his native tongue.

 _Almost._ As it stood, Professor Lancer had done roll call and he’d asked for Danny. Danny had responded. Such a minor detail would generally hardly phase her, but it confirmed to her that Danny wasn’t the ghost of some student still trying to finish his degree, or a bored ghost, or some kind of imposter. Other people could see him, interact with him. She’d never known anyone else that could see ghosts.

She’d especially never known anyone that would recognize Necrotic, let alone write in it. She didn’t even know how to write it herself, though her speaking had finally reached fluency.

There was a familiar shuffle of papers, the sound of pens clicking, notebooks flipping shut, and backpacks being opened. Sam peeked at her phone. Class was over. She looked back at Danny.

He’d already put his things away, in the few seconds she’d turned from him. He gave her an uneasy glance, then made for the door as quickly as he could without drawing attention.

_Oh no, he doesn’t._

Sam threw her things into her spider backpack (the one she’d had since middle school, looking a little worse for wear but still a beloved possession that she’d be hard-pressed to let go of) and took off after him. She had the advantage—she didn’t care what other people thought.

“Wait up!” she called. Danny’s head twitched back slightly, then stopped. He picked up the pace. _Oh, he definitely heard me._ She jogged forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Danny, right?”

He finally turned to face her. His expression was blank, which she found odd—she would expect more concern, she knew she’d been more than a little creepy toward him. Or irritation, even.

“Yeah. Do I know you?” he asked, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck.

“No,” she said. She felt a pang of anxiety. “But you know Necrotic.”

He blanched, and she felt a little light-headed for the weight that took off her shoulders. She wasn’t mistaken. “Are you—I mean, can you…?” she stuttered.

He grabbed her by the wrist—gently, more encouraging than forceful—and led her down the hall.

They didn’t stop walking until they were out in the gardens behind the liberal arts building, hidden behind a hedge wrapped around a gazebo, ankle deep in snow.

“Who are you?” he asked finally, his eyes narrowing. “ _What_ are you?”

“I’m, uh, Sam,” she answered lamely. “I’m not a ghost. You’re not either, right? Professor Lancer knew you were there. So how do you know Necrotic?”

Danny was still on the defensive. He shifted his weight back, then crossed his arms. “You tell me first,” he said.

Sam thought that was fair. She’d started this interrogation. If she wanted this to be friendly, she’d have to share, too. And she _really_ wanted this to be friendly. “Think we could start this over? Sorry for the theatrics. Maybe talk somewhere warm?” He was still in a defensive stance, like he was ready to run, or maybe deck her. (Or try to deck her, anyway. She doubted he could, with his scrawny frame.) “Neutral territory?”

Danny let out a little laugh, and _finally,_ relaxed his shoulders. He looped a thumb through his belt. He rubbed the back of his neck again. “Right. Yeah. Sorry for dragging you out in the snow. This doesn’t exactly happen every day.”

Sam nodded. “Wanna go to the Nasty Burger?” she asked. It was the most neutral place she could think of—everyone went there.

“Not really. Too many people there,” he said. She didn’t blame him. _Everyone_ went there. “You ever been to the bagel place on Fifth Street?”

Her brows furrowed. “No, never even heard of it. Is it good?”

Danny laughed, though she didn’t know at what. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Let’s go there, it’s always dead.”

* * *

Sam didn’t know why she was surprised that the boy who took notes in Necrotic had meant the place was dead in the most literal sense.

Sam felt a little shiver down her spine like she usually did when she walked into someplace that was excessively haunted. Immediately, she realized that the girl behind the counter was fuzzy, like she was seeing her out of the corner of her eye. Her skin was also tinged green—it wasn’t quite as obvious as other ghosts she’d seen, but she could tell the difference.

The shop itself was rundown, borderline abandoned. It was just missing the boards on the windows. The vinyl booths were off-color, faded. The rest of the place wasn’t much better. It was like an old, black and white photo of a place you knew—you knew what the colors would be, could even project it slightly onto the image, but they weren’t really there. Or were they? She was confusing herself. Ghostly things had that effect.

What really piqued her interest, though, was the definitely-still-living man ordering a coffee to go from her. He seemed none the wiser. She’d rarely seen a ghost powerful enough to present to a normal person so convincingly. Or was he another medium? Just where was she?

Danny glanced at her and smiled, and something told her he was enjoying her confusion. He’d probably brought her here on purpose, to gauge how much she really knew about ghosts. He led her to a table in the corner. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Is this some kind of club for psychics?” she asked. It sounded stupid even to her, but she had to be sure.

To his credit, he didn’t laugh. He just continued to smile. “Nah. It’s a bagel shop. It’s just run by ghosts. And it only shows up between 10:13 and 1:44. You also can’t come here unless someone else shows it to you first, so I didn’t think we’d have to worry about any company.”

Sam nodded. It was hardly the weirdest thing she’d seen. She motioned toward a conspicuous red-headed student in oversized headphones in the opposite corner, tapping away at a laptop. “What about him? Did you show him this place?”

“Oh, that’s Mikey. I don’t really know how he found this place, but he just comes here to program some game he’s working on. I think Sophia—that’s the girl behind the counter—might’ve showed him.” Danny leaned back in his seat, and Sam did the same, trying to make herself comfortable. “So. You know Necrotic?”

Sam made a waving gesture with her hand. “Yes and no. I speak it pretty well. Haven’t entirely gotten a handle on writing it.”

Danny nodded. “How’re you… caught up in all of this?”

Sam’s shoulders fell, though she tried to reign in her expression. “That’s the question, isn’t it? No one else in my family’s psychic.”

“Oh. Psychic. That makes sense,” he said. And that was weird, wasn’t it? Wasn’t he psychic, too, to be seeing ghosts like she did?

“You’re psychic too, aren’t you?” she asked.

He chewed on his lip. “It’s weird,” he started, mumbling something or other but trailing off after. “It’s really complicated. Is the short version fine?” Sam nodded. “You must have heard of the Fenton family?”

Sam giggled. “It’s hard not to, they’re the biggest hacks in town.”

Danny looked a little uncomfortable, but tried to play it off in good humor. “Uh, not quite. Danny Fenton, at your service.” He gave her as regal a bow as one could manage in a restaurant booth.

She felt her cheeks turning scarlet before the full implications of what he’d said had hit her. _So that was his last name._ “Oh, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he interrupted, waving her off. “Really. They’re huge nerds and they make fools of themselves monthly. But they’re a lot smarter than they’ve ever really been able to prove in public. That ghost portal in our basement is the real deal. When I was a teenager, I was tinkering with it, and it shocked me. Did something to me, now I’m more comfortable with Necrotic. Had to relearn English.”

Sam gaped at him. “You—you’re serious?” That was a stupid thing to say. Of course he was, they were sitting in a ghost-owned bagel shop.

“Dead serious,” he said, and she had the inkling that there was more to this story than he was letting on. Call it a premonition. “Anyway, my whole family sees ghosts. We’re all ecto-contaminated. Hard not to be in that house, considering we have our own personal hole in reality in the basement.”

“Shit,” Sam said, because what else could she say? “So English isn’t your first language?”

“Well it is my first. It’s just not my native language. I guess.” He shrugged. “Kind of sucks I keep failing English, though. I mean I speak fine, but—it’s like dyslexia? I don’t know how to describe it. Something goes _wrong_ when I try to read or write in English.”

A brilliant scheme unraveled in Sam’s mind. A perfect opportunity to get to know him better, to finally have someone she could _really_ talk to. “Well congrats,” she said, switching into Necrotic. “You’ve located the only student on campus that’s fluent in Necrotic and has stellar English grades.”

Danny straightened up. “Oh,” he said. “That’s a really good idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Sam beamed at him, eyes narrowed conspiratorially as she picked at one of her nails. “Well, clearly, I’m the brains and you’re the beauty here,” she teased.

Danny’s face went red. Maybe that hadn’t had the effect she’d intended.

“Shit. I’ve got class. Meet me here tomorrow?” he said.

“Yeah,” she said.

He all but ran outside.


	2. Chapter 2

Danny groaned over his tablet, flicking the stylus back and forth between his fingers when he wasn’t scrolling up and down the display. The display currently showed his personal map of Amity Park, which included notes of where natural portals had a tendency to appear, who currently possessed various territories and haunts, and other ghostly oddities.

Danny groaned again and zoomed in what had previously been an innocuous quarter of the Warehouse District, a territory only continuously occupied by the Box Ghost. Or it had been, until this past week. Now there seemed to be half a dozen ghosts in prison uniforms vying for the area.

Danny’s current theory was that there had been another jailbreak from Walker’s prison. But why not return to their lairs, or fight for their preferred haunts? Not everyone that was showing up was a regular in Amity Park, they had no previous claims to defend. Some he’d never even seen before—he suspected they’d been imprisoned by Walker for a long, long time. Wouldn’t they rather go to their lairs to recuperate before fighting for haunts in the human world?

Ghosts needed spiritual energy to continue to exist—energy that was hard to obtain in Walker’s prison. That was part of the punishment they served, only getting just enough to hang on by a thread. Their lairs would sustain them, heal them. But it wasn’t so easy to gather such energy in the living world. The only reliable method was to feed off the various emotions of humanity.

So then, why the Warehouse District? There was barely anyone there to feed from. It hadn’t been in active use since the 50s, and was currently only inhabited by a stray few start-ups and the homeless. It was hardly the most conducive territory for recovering from a long imprisonment. The only Obsession he knew it supported was the Box Ghost’s. Even from a human perspective, there wasn’t anything to do in the Warehouse District other than urban exploration.

And yet there were suddenly six convicts willing to fight to nonexistence for this space, this useless patch of concrete wastes that most other ghosts never gave a second look.

Danny didn’t even care if they haunted the place. They weren’t damaging anything. The most they’d done was scare some people off. It was like they were trying to keep a _low profile._

To other ghosts, they would’ve succeeded in going unnoticed. As it was, Danny had only caught wind of the situation due to the Box Ghost moving into a post office far outside his usual territory. Danny hadn’t even fought him, the Box Ghost had just complained for an hour then took off with a maniacal laugh and a roll of packing tape. The Box Ghost had given up on fighting with Danny, especially after he’d given him the Warehouse District. Danny was pretty sure the Box Ghost had only decided to haunt the post office to get his attention. A roundabout way of asking for help. They didn’t fight anymore, but it was comfortable to keep up the pretense that they were enemies. 

After he’d started digging into it, he’d found the Warehouse District wasn’t the only unusual territory being disputed. So far he’d also noted: two parking garages, an old folks’ home, and a modern art gallery.

(Excepting that the art gallery dispute seemed to have been settled. He’d witnessed two ghosts flying away screaming from the place, and he’d heard rumors that the paintings inside had all suddenly donned smiles, and more unusually that the color lavender seemed to stop existing when you set foot inside. It had all the signs of becoming a stable haunt.)

Danny didn’t know what was causing the activity, but it left him nauseous with anxiety. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on in Amity Park. Ultimately, he considered it to be his territory, and he was more of a gracious host to those that could follow the house rules, like the Box Ghost.

Danny didn’t realize he’d begun floating a foot off the bed until he heard keys in the dorm room door. He went ramrod straight, reigning in the ghostly tendencies he’d been letting loose and hitting the bed with a dull _thump._

His roommate, a computer science major named Tucker, shuffled into the room, his eyes never once leaving his phone. He looked a little worse for wear, polyester yellow jacket wrinkled and red snapback sagging against his curls. The light of the phone turned his face an unhealthy gray, but he didn’t turn on the light, content to bask in the glow of his technology. Danny was glad for it—sometimes bright lights gave him a headache.

“Hey,” Danny said, shooting for casual and landing in awkward.

Tucker still didn’t look up from his screen. “Hey,” he answered.

Danny decided not to mess with a good thing. The less they interacted, the less he’d have to cover-up for.

Not that he would have had to deal with this at all if it hadn’t been for Jazz sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. It wasn’t like they couldn’t have paid for a single, or an apartment, even. That had been the plan until Jazz took it upon herself to make sure Danny had a normal college experience. Danny scoffed. It wasn’t like she knew he’d never be normal. No one did, and he liked it that way.

Danny packed up his things for class and began the short walk from the dorms to the liberal arts building. It was snowing lightly, dusting the paved sidewalks and adding another layer to the piles blanketing the grass. It didn’t bother him. Cold hadn’t bothered him since the Accident, even before his cold core started presenting itself. The heat didn’t much bother him, either. Sometimes he wished it did. Some days he just felt _numb,_ out of touch with the world of the living, like some of his sense of touch and being-in-touch had died when he had in that portal and felt _hot cold electric fire in his veins leaving green tendrils in their wake and it was—_

 _Bad thoughts. Think of something else,_ he chided. With some effort, he pushed his thoughts toward his upcoming class. English, his worst subject. But he finally had a tutor that could help him!

_Because she speaks Necrotic by choice. Unlike you, dead and using the language of the dead but still presenting a horrifying facsimile of life to everyone you love because you’re too much of a coward to just finish--_

Danny took a deep breath and exhaled a puff of mist. He felt a shiver like a cold fingernail across his spine. Ghost Sense. Good. He needed the distraction.

Danny slipped between a corner and a brick fence. Earlier, with Tucker, he’d reigned in all of his ghostly energy, stamped down that half of his instincts like he was putting out a fire. Now, Danny rolled his shoulders and he felt it all come loose. He breathed a sigh of relief. He did not inhale. He didn’t need to—not even in his human form.

It was easier like this, he thought. He didn’t have to pretend so much.

Danny walked through the brick wall but didn’t take to the sky quite yet. Year of hard-won battle instinct told him the enemy was on ground level. He could feel them flickering on the edge of his senses. It was another part of his Ghost Sense that he’d better learned to control over the years, an awareness of the spiritual happenings around him.

Danny felt more than saw something flit across the street behind him, and he turned. Found them. It was another ghost in black and white prison stripes, but not a ghost he recognized. He was an old man, and an old ghost, Danny guessed. His skin was nuclear green, glowing. His eyes were bottomless black. He had no hair. He still had age spots and wrinkles, though Danny didn’t know how he could see them through the glow he emitted.

Danny floated over to the ghost. He hadn’t made any move to attack, so Danny felt it was fair to respond in kind. “Can I help you?” he asked.

The ghost took to his knees and bowed his head. Danny crossed his arms. That was different.

It was a few minutes before the ghost finally spoke. Danny watched students rushing from one class to another on the streets beside them, oblivious to the paranormal event unfolding right beside them. Sometimes he wished he was like them, fully human, fully alive. Other days he wished he didn’t have any life left in him to pretend with.

“Sir,” the ghost finally said. “I come seeking protection. I beg your leave to haunt the tunnels beneath this college, and, should wayward spirits wander that way, to host lectures.”

Danny nodded. This ranked as one of the most polite requests he’d ever received. He didn’t see the harm in agreeing.

“I won’t tolerate any Living being harmed,” he said.

The ghost nodded. “No Living will be hurt, you have my word. Scared, maybe. Nothing permanent.”

Danny appreciated the honesty. He was about to agree, mouth half-open in response when another figure appeared beside them. A woman, this time. Or at least he thought. She was only a silhouette. He saw the shape of a ball and chain on her ankle. She knelt beside the old man.

“Sir, please, you can’t let him stay here! I need it more. I have been imprisoned so long I’ve forgotten who I’m supposed to be. Please, I need this more than him.”

The old man glared at her, but settled for narrowing his eyes and staring at his shoes in order to maintain polite posture.

Danny just about had a fit when a third prisoner appeared, a male of similar age to himself but who had probably died in the sixties. He wore a fringed vest over the stripes.

“Come on man! I already died in one war, I’m not dying in another! Can I hang out here til this blows over?”

Danny ran his fingers through his hair, cold flames licking at his fingers. “Ok let’s back this up. What the hell is going on?” he asked.

The guy in the vest took a step back, shock apparent on his face. “You don’t know already? Dude, I thought that was like, your whole shtick.”

Danny suppressed an eye roll. “Enlighten me,” he said.

“Shit. I thought you would’ve been preparing and all, considering last time. You, uh, should drop by Walker’s Prison. And maybe take care of the whole SNAFU while you’re out there?” He paused. “That’s beside the point. Can we stay here?”

Danny really didn’t like the way he’d said ‘preparing’ and ‘last time’.

But more pressing, he noticed the conspicuous lack of students on the street. Shit, he was going to be late. He probably already was. He’d have to deal with this later. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Don’t hurt anyone and don’t cause too much trouble,” he said.

The three ghosts acknowledged his response, then shot under the street for the tunnels. He suspected he’d have to settle a territory dispute by the end of the week.

Danny shook his head. A problem for a different time. Right now, he needed to pass English.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam poked at the potatoes on her plate. Metal clinked as the fork fell off starch and touched ceramic. Her mother was speaking to her. Sam blinked, hard, then looked up at the elder Manson. Somehow, despite the early hour, Pam was as put together as always—hair perfectly arranged, pearls hanging nobly from her neck and ears, and her white dress wrinkle-free and perfectly pleated under her spring green sweater. She even wore a headband with a bow on top to wrap up the whole look.

“Goodness, dear. Perhaps if you didn’t stay up so late you wouldn’t be so tired,” Pam said. She handed Sam a mug of coffee. Sam determined the drink was apology enough for starting the day with judgment, and opted to say nothing.

Her father turned away from the sink, where he was methodically drying off the fine China he’d had his morning tea in. He set the dishes down. “Who were you talking to last night Sammy? They should know you need to rest for school. I’d rather you take your phone calls during normal hours,” her dad said, coming up behind Pam and resting his hands on her shoulders.

Sam felt her eye twitch. It was too early for this. “It’s not a big deal, Dad. I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.”

“Well then Miss Adult, did you get your paperwork to declare your major?” he asked.

Pam shot him a look, and Sam all but growled. He wanted to do this now? _She could do this now._ “Sure. I’ll pick it up today on the way back from English. It’s the same building, because I’m going to do Religious Studies.” She narrowed her eyes at him, waiting for him to make the next move. That _was_ what she thought she wanted to do, but—

Jeremy shook his head. “Don’t be silly. You can’t apply that to the company.”

There it was.

“Jeremy,” Pam warned.

Sam slammed her coffee mug down on the table, not caring when it splashed over her breakfast. She wasn’t going to eat it anyway. “That’s right,” Sam said. She picked up her dishes and walked over to the sink, footfall too heavy on the tile floor. “I have zero intention of taking over the company.”

“Sam, there’s no need to throw a temper tantrum. Let’s have a civil conversation,” Pam said.

Sam laughed. “Civil? Civility requires mutual respect, which you have never given me.”

“You want to talk respect? You? You would throw away all the work your mother and I have put into our business! All the effort we’ve put into your education!” Jeremy grit his teeth and spit out each word as if they were bitter on his tongue.

“That’s right. I’ll be another failed project,” she snarled. “One you can’t figure out, like you could never figure out how to run the company even half as well as Grandma did. There probably won’t even be a company left when you die—”

“Samantha Manson! That is enough!” Pam yelled as she stood from her seat. Jeremy drew in a breath to speak, a snide look on his face as he readied a retort. Pam shook off his grip and turned to stare him down too. Her eyes were wide and red. She looked ready to throw a punch or start crying, Sam wasn’t sure. “And Jeremy! You will also put a lid on it! We will discuss this like the adults we _all_ are!”

“Whatever. I’m going to class,” Sam said. She stomped out of the kitchen and made sure to slam the door behind her.

She was halfway to the bedroom wing of the mansion when she heard the sound of wheels and electric whirring behind her. Sam drew in a deep breath before she turned to face her grandmother.

“Now now Bubeleh, I know you’re frustrated, but your mother’s right. Insulting each other isn’t going to solve anything,” Grandma Ida said. She wore her winning smile, which glowed white in the dark of the hall.

Sam pinched her nose and took another deep breath. “I know.”

“But he did start it,” Grandma Ida added. “Jeremy’s always been good at starting fights. You’re good at finishing them. You both get it from me.” She made as fierce a face as she could, which Sam thought resembled a puppy trying to be menacing, while flexing her muscles.

Sam laughed, then put her hands up defensively. “Easy there Grandma, I don’t think I could take you,” she said.

“Nonsense. You can do anything you put your mind to. Even getting your father to understand you, if you find the right approach.” Grandma Ida smiled again and put a cold hand to Sam’s face. “But don’t you worry dear, I’ll talk to him, though he never listens to me either.”

Sam’s cheeks felt wet. “Thanks, Grandma,” she said quietly.

Grandma Ida smiled. She scootered away toward the kitchen. Sam watched until she vanished halfway down the hall, as though she’d never been there at all.

* * *

Sam was determined to turn her day around for the better, but she couldn’t seem to get the world on the same page.

It was pouring when Sam stepped out the side door for her scooter. Water fell from the sky as though it had a personal vendetta against her, and she wondered vaguely if it did. The November air was sharp in her nose, cold needling through her whole head.

She refused to ask her parents for car keys. They’d insist on driving her in this weather. She wasn’t going to give them another opportunity to ruin her day. _I can still get there myself,_ she thought. _I can walk._

The wind roared and the rain shifted until it was falling horizontally. She counted her blessings that her backpack remained dry, though her midsection was taking the brunt of the assault instead. She grit her teeth and shivered. The wind was frigid and the rain even colder. Still, she persevered. She opened her umbrella with some difficulty and held it up against the wind, knuckles white under the grip required to keep the wind from taking it. She started the long walk to campus.

The rain grew thicker, heavier. It greyed until it could no longer be called anything but sleet. Sam grimaced. Tucking her face into the plush lining of her coat, she trudged onward.

Her legs were numb. She could barely feel her face. All she could see ahead of her was her umbrella swaying in her grip, wet clumps of snow swirling all around her and landing on her face and eyes. She was soaked to the skin. “This is fucking ridiculous,” she stuttered through chattering teeth. The wind only roared in response.

Sam had just passed the first lamppost adorned with a university advertisement when she felt her boot catch on something. She gasped in surprise while she hurtled forward. She struggled to regain her balance. The wind screeched and she finally lost her hold on her umbrella. Sam closed her eyes and braced for impact.

Cold filled her mouth and froze her curses to her tongue. She hadn’t thought that she could get colder, but this… she felt this cold like snakes biting through her skin, spreading their venom until her blood turned to ice, wriggling into her bones to rest. She could feel nothing else. It crossed her mind as a certainty that this cold would kill her. This was the cold of the grave, the chill of death itself. Her heart was frozen solid.

Then warmth returned to her skin, and she felt her heart slamming in her chest. She didn’t feel the rain anymore. The air was still frigid, but it lacked the scent of decaying leaves and November snow. Instead, it smelled sour and the air felt acidic on her tongue.

Sam opened her eyes slowly. She was greeted with a vast expanse not of grey, but green.

Purple and black doors bobbed around her. Senseless architecture filled the space between. Lime green lattices served as the ceiling to a Romanesque loggia before her, despite stairs leading up as though it was solid, walkable floor. Other sets of stairs led nowhere at all. There were windows in the floor and a door in the column between two arches. One wall was set with furniture as if it was the floor, and Sam suspected that in that space, it was.

Green blobs like limes dripped upwards while waterfalls of black goo fell from the foot of the arches into an equally black abyss, only marked by a mesmerizing swirl of spearmint.

Bile rose in her throat, and she heaved. The acid sting of vomit felt tame compared to the citrus bite in the air.

Her heart raced in her chest. Hot fear pricked at her cheeks as anxiety coiled in her belly. She felt like she was going to be sick again. “Where am I?” she whispered. Her voice echoed as if she herself was hollow.

Sam shook her head, trying to get a grip on her emotions. She needed to find a way out. She needed to get her bearings, or find someone who could help her, or— _or anything_ other than just sit there by a puddle of her vomit.

Sam’s whole body shook. With great effort, she lifted herself to her feet. She looked up, or what she thought was up. Then behind her, before her, below her. She didn’t see anything resembling… _anything_ she could have come here through, other than the endless expanse of doors. Maybe if she got a higher vantage point, she could find something— _anything_ to help her out of here.

Sam trudged up the scrolled staircase before her onto that precarious lattice. At the end, she saw something like a gap in the horizon. She took another look behind her, and still not seeing anything that resembled a way home, she determined to walk to the end of the structure. Maybe she could see something through the gap.

It must have been a mile’s walk, though it could only have been twenty feet in length. The careful balancing act of walking the whole way took her an hour, completed in the course of five minutes. It didn’t make sense. Nothing did, and Sam felt sick again. Her head was spinning trying to find logic in a place where there was none.

When Sam finally arrived at the end of the lattice, she was relieved to see there _was_ a gap in the horizon—a space void of any doors or stairs or architecture. Was that the true horizon? The spearmint swirl that had been below her was now ahead of her, another thing Sam couldn’t make sense of, so she stopped trying.

Far away, much farther than she’d already walked, there was a smaller swirl of green set in a metal octagon. She didn’t know why, but it looked different, _felt_ different from everything else in this strange place. Maybe it was the metal—it looked more solid, more real than anything else she’d seen. It felt familiar. She knew she had to go there.

Sam took a deep breath, the ambient taste and smell beginning to dull as her body adjusted to the strange place. She hoped that wouldn’t be a problem later. She needed to find a way to get to the path that led to that strange door, but she couldn’t see one. At least not one that her mind could make sense of at the time.

As she was trying to wrap her head around the idea of possibly being able to walk up the wall-floor of a not-building before her, she realized the floor had fallen out beneath her, planks crumbling into the black abyss and the green swirl that was both above and below. Sam let out a cry, reaching out for something, anything she could grab onto as she fell—

But the fall never came. She was suspended in the air, floating. She took another shuddering breath. Could she… fly? Was that possible in this strange place? That would explain the architecture.

Sam kicked a foot behind her, and she felt herself propelled forward by the force of it, almost like she was swimming. Unlike swimming, she kept floating forward, making it clear that physics was still not at play in this place. A gentle breeze tousled her hair.

Sam clasped her hands above her head like she was about to take a dive into the deep end. She felt that gentle breeze change until it came from the direction of her hands. Ok, this was working. She could work with this. She pointed her hands toward the strange door.

As she slowly glided through the air, she caught sight of something else—something different. It wasn’t the senseless architecture that she’d seen before, but neither did it have that material quality she sensed from the strange door. It was a prison. Sam thought so, anyway, but she also got the impression that nothing was what it seemed in this place.

It was also surrounded by ghosts.

The gears turned in her mind, then everything clicked into place. She was in the realm of the dead. The Fentons had a name for it. The Ghost Plane? No, it was something else. The Ghost Zone. That strange door she was trying to reach must be their portal. That was why it looked familiar. She remembered seeing a photo of it in the newspaper when they’d completed it. She felt relieved. If it really was their portal, then it would take her home.

But how had she fallen into this place to begin with?

Sam refocused her gaze on the prison. So this was the sort of place where ghosts stayed when they weren’t haunting the living? A building on a floating isle in the middle of… nothing.

It was a gaudy magenta thing, toned down by the sheer vibrancy of green that surrounded it. It was cloaked in green aura. The roofs and the tall, white walls were topped with cyan barbed wire. The walls were spaced with guard towers, manned by ghosts with… were those machine guns? They glowed, too, like everything else in this place. Some pointed their guns inward. Others outward.

Sam ducked behind a boulder, suddenly afraid of what might happen to her if she was seen.

But she didn’t look away. She was too intrigued. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, wasn’t it? (She sort of hoped it was. Another part of her that screamed for adventure and excitement hoped that it wasn’t.)

So she kept looking. Behind the white guard wall, there was a second, shorter one in that same sickly magenta. Was the white wall a later addition, and the pink the original? She thought it had that look, like it was an afterthought. It didn’t seem to fit together right. Her eyes traced the white wall down until she landed on another building, set behind the pink one.

The second building was red hot. She didn’t know how she knew it was hot, other than the red burning into her retinas as she looked at it. It was a different type of architecture. The prison was—familiar. Old, maybe, but familiar. Stone walls and wood roofs with iron to support the towers. Early to mid-1900s, she guessed. The red building wasn’t medieval—it was far too flashy. But it was certainly a castle, and one built for defense rather than luxury. There were towering spires and winged buttresses surrounding the main keep. Stone walks led to smaller guardhouses suspended over nothing. Towers jutted out where they had no place being. There was no outer wall, besides the white one that she thought must be new, but then, why would there be? Anyone could fly here. She wondered why they bothered with the new wall at all.

The longer she looked at it, the more something about it seared _wrong wrong wrong_ into her brain, and she was overcome with panic and dread. She couldn’t help but throw up again.

Or, perhaps, that was just the effect of this realm on the living. She was wasting too much time here—she didn’t know anything about how this realm functioned, or what lasting effects it might have on her. She needed to leave. _Now._

Sam waited a moment for her stomach to settle, then turned her hands and shot off for the portal as quickly as she knew how (which was not very quickly at all).

She dove through the portal with her hands outstretched before her like she’d flown through the rest of the Ghost Zone. She felt that bottomless cold again as she pass through, into a tunnel of more swirling green. She could see what looked like a lab beyond it. She pushed her hands out further and reached.

Sam fell out of the portal onto her stomach, the air instantly knocked out of her. Her chest ached at the sudden impact, and she wheezed, trying to take in air but her chest in too much pain to respond.

She heard the sound of something shattering. She turned her head toward it weakly. Danny was staring at her from a desk chair, a broken mug and steaming coffee at his feet.

“S-Sam?”


	4. Chapter 4

After Danny’s run-in with the three convicted ghosts, he found the rest of his day fared little better.

Sam wasn’t in English class and she didn’t show up at the bagel shop like they’d planned. He tried not to take it personally. She was probably sick or something—they hadn’t exchanged numbers yet, so it wasn’t like she could give him an update.

After class, Danny had to break up a territory fight between the three convicts (and he should have known it was a mistake, letting three unknowns into his territory). But they were reasonable—he broke down the campus into three distinct regions for them and left no room for further arguments, which they seemed to accept. But any more disturbances and he’d be glad to toss them back into the Ghost Zone and whatever fate awaited them there.

(And that was something he was trying not to think about yet, not until night fell and he could investigate.)

Ghost fighting took up his lunch break. Then he was late to Astro because of a bleeding wound on the cheek, so he’d spent twenty minutes invisible in the bathroom while he waited for it to stop dripping neon green. After Astro was World Religions. Then there was: more ghost fighting, homework in the library, the wound on his cheek disappearing, a ghost in the library, a new bruise on his shoulder, flying home for a family dinner with his parents and Jazz and Vlad, waiting for everyone to go home…

When Danny finally settled into a chair in the basement lab of Fenton Works with a cup of coffee, he felt ready to pass out. A quick look in the stainless steel countertop showed him that the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than usual (and they’d been plenty dark all semester. He couldn’t sleep in the same room as Tucker, or anyone else at all. It left him feeling too vulnerable to attack). But it didn’t matter. None of it did. He still needed to investigate Walker’s prison.

Danny pressed his thumb to the genetic lock on the Fenton portal. Metal creaked on metal as the gate wrenched itself open, revealing hypnotic, radiant green. Icy cold blasted through the portal and the temperature of the lab dropped a good ten degrees.

Danny sighed a deep sigh. He didn’t feel the chill of the ectoplasm, not the way a normal, _human_ person would. With the cold came a wave of energy like static electricity, lifting the hairs on his skin. He leaned his head back, taking it all in, basking like a cat in the sun. The ambient ectoplasm of the Ghost Zone was imprinted with energy. It whispered of Peace to his ghost half. He felt tendrils of Comfort and Rest massaging his skin. He felt at Home.

He wished he had more time to just sit like this. It was so difficult between classes and other obligations to go to the Ghost Zone, let alone stay long enough to truly reenergize his ectoplasm the way he knew he needed to. Maybe he wouldn’t be so tired all the time if he could make more time to visit the Ghost Zone.

Danny sat like that for a few minutes, letting the spectral energy spilling from the portal restore his strength. He nursed a coffee too, for good measure. Maybe in another ten minutes he’d feel ready to dive in. He knew he’d be fine then, provided he could first muster the energy to get out of his chair. He could ride the high of the ambient ectoplasm and adrenaline long enough to gather some information on Walker’s prison then, hopefully, return home for some well-deserved sleep. Maybe if he was lucky, Tucker would be asleep in the computer lab, and he’d actually get some shuteye.

This thought was quickly swept to the side as Danny felt something coming through the portal. He waited for his Ghost Sense to go off. Instead, a girl flew—not fell, but _flew_ —out of the portal. And she was definitely fully alive, nothing ghostly about her but the traces of ectoplasm clinging to her skin from her time in the Ghost Zone. She lost momentum as she lost the ability to fly upon reentry to the Living World, and she hit the ground with a painful sounding _thud._

And then he realized that he recognized her. He knew that dark hair, that small ponytail, the fluttering black crop top under a plush black coat. He knew the ripped up jeans tucked into knee-high combat boots. He knew her and he didn’t know why she was here and his coffee mug fell to the ground and shattered.

“S-Sam?” Danny stuttered.

She just blinked at him and groaned. Right, she was hurt—he needed to quit _staring_ and help her (and when was the last time something had surprised him like this?). Danny shot out of his chair and took to the floor all too quickly, banging his knees against the dark cyan tiles.

“Sam? You with me?” he asked. He grabbed her wrist and checked for a pulse—it was strong, if quick.

“That was really shitty. And really cool. But mostly shitty,” Sam said. She shook her wrist from his grasp so she could massage her forehead. “Ugh.”

Danny helped lift her to a sitting position against one of the counters. “What were you doing in the Ghost Zone?” he asked, forcing his voice to stay calm even though he wanted to shout a string of questions at her. The result was steady, soothing—he was good at setting his emotions aside in the face of the unexpected.

Sam started shivering. She stopped rubbing her temples and started rubbing at her arms instead. Danny took off his NASA jacket and threw it over her shoulders. “Thanks,” she said. She looked up at him, her mauve eyes piercing into his. “I was walking through that stupid rain to get to English and I tripped into a puddle. Or I thought it was a puddle, until everything was… green.”

“Rain?” he asked. He remembered snow, not rain.

“Uh, yeah?” she said. “Don’t tell me you missed a storm like _that.”_

“I did,” he said. Danny chewed his lip. Vortex? No, he would have known. Natural portals brought with them unusual circumstances—lights in the woods, shadow people, that sort of thing. He supposed a localized storm wasn’t that surprising… Sam was giving him a look. “I think you fell into a natural portal,” he explained. “It’s rare. Really rare. You’re lucky it spit you out in the same time period. Natural portals aren’t stable like this one—” He pointed to the Fenton Portal. “—and they have a tendency to bounce people between time and space. How long were you in the Ghost Zone?”

“Two hours, I think,” she said.

Danny winced. “It’s almost midnight.”

Sam laughed. “No shit? My parents are going to be livid.” She pulled herself off the floor, stretching her arms over her head. Danny tried not to notice how her crop top lifted and revealed some of the violet satin of her bra. “Whatever. They’ll live. Am I? That little adventure isn’t going to kill me, is it?”

Danny stood up beside her, brushing dirt off his knees. “Nope. Just traveling is fine,” he said. _And he would know firsthand that you had to be in the portal when it was created for it to kill you._ “You might be ecto-contaminated, but you’re psychic, so that probably happened a long time ago.”

“What does that mean?” she asked. She lifted her hand up, perhaps noticing the faint white glow she’d brought with her from the portal. It would fade in a few minutes’ time.

“Enough ecto-contamination and ghosts will be able to sense you better. You can already see ghosts, so that won’t be an issue… that’s all my family has really documented. We’re all ecto-contaminated ourselves.” Well. Danny was definitely more than _contaminated,_ but. Semantics. “The glow is just a side effect of going in the Ghost Zone. It’ll fade in a few minutes,” he said.

“You speaking from experience?” she asked.

 _Fuck._ “Uh. Ha. Don’t tell anyone?” Danny floundered for a second. “I mean, we’ve had this portal for years, but my parents are still collecting data from outside it… They’re too cautious to go in more than a few feet, and they won’t let me or Jazz go in. But I, uh. Got curious. Stepped in just once.”

Sam grinned widely. “Oh, a dirty little secret, then. I’m good at those,” she said.

Danny rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t like to even _imply_ that he had secrets, let alone tell anyone any of them, even a relatively minor one like this, and especially not to an almost-complete stranger. Any secrets kept implied he could be keeping more, and that was dangerous knowledge if it fell into the wrong hands.

“Yeah. You probably shouldn’t mention that you took a trip, either. My parents would insist on running tests, since you didn’t wear any protective gear,” he said.

Sam nodded, then got a faraway look. “What’d you see, when you visited the Ghost Zone?” she asked.

 _A mirror of the Acropolis of Athens, Salem in 1692, the realm of the personification of Time himself..._ Danny didn’t think any of those was appropriate to mention. “Green ooze and a lot of purple doors. Then I chickened out,” he said.

Sam nodded again. “I saw some kinda prison.” Wait, she’d seen Walker’s prison? Would she have noticed anything strange? “And a castle.”

Danny clenched his teeth, feigning a normal level of interest and masking the pang of concern in his chest. _Castle? How far out had she been? Had anyone followed her?_ Shit, that was dangerous territory for a human to go. She was lucky she escaped. “Wow. I had no idea there was stuff like that in there. Guess that confirms some of my parents’ theories,” he said, giving a hint of a smile. “What’d they look like?”

And so Sam described to him, in intricate detail, exactly what she’d seen. She even grabbed a sheet of paper off one of the counters and drew out a diagram for him. A diagram that left no room for doubt that she’d seen Walker’s Prison chained to Pariah’s Keep.

And ok, he’d expected to find something bad, but _this?_ This was unprecedented. He didn’t even know it was possible to attach two lairs without causing the opposing ectoplasms to punch a hole into reality and create something like a black hole. (Ok, maybe this wasn’t _completely_ unprecedented. There was the incident where he’d learned about the black hole problem in the first place.)

“Danny?” Sam asked. Danny blinked.

“Oh. Sorry. I’m really tired,” he lied. “It’s kinda late. We could meet up tomorrow and talk about this more, but I think you better get home. Unless you want to endure an interrogation from my parents.”

Sam waved the idea off. “Definitely not. I’m sure I’ll get plenty of that from my own parents.” Sam zipped up her coat. “It’s a good thing I barely slept last night, or this would really mess up my sleep schedule…”

Danny chuckled. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

Sam shrugged. “I mean we already covered that I’m not going to die or be maimed by this. And my parents freak out about everything I do, so being gone all day is hardly a concern…” She bobbed her head. “Yep. Really just leaves my sleep schedule.”

Danny wished getting enough sleep was his biggest worry.

Danny locked up the portal, then walked toward the stairs. “We have to be quiet past here. I don’t want to wake up my folks.”

“You got it,” Sam said. She even took off her boots to move more quietly.

Danny led her upstairs and out the kitchen, careful to avoid knocking into any furniture or tripping on the loose tile. Sam moved like a cat, graceful and comfortable in the dark. He got the distinct impression that she was an expert in sneaking out. Danny couldn’t say that he was—if he wanted to sneak out, he usually went through the ceiling.

Danny’s breath hitched when he realized there was a light on in the living room. Shit. Who else was up? He was supposed to have left already. Not to even start on Sam, who wasn’t supposed to be in the house at all.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Sam did her best to mimic him, but she hadn’t been expecting it. She put her foot down too quickly and a broken tile scraped under her weight.

There was a shuffling sound from the living room. _Shit._ His parents?

No, worse. A tall, silver-haired man in an Italian suit of the highest quality appeared in the doorway, framed by the light behind him. His Uncle Vlad. Vlad would chew him out for not following safety protocol in the lab worse than his parents ever would. “Ah, Daniel. I thought you’d returned to the dormitory…” he paused, taking in the girl behind him. “And who is this?”

“Uh, Uncle Vlad, this is Sam. Sam, this is Vlad Masters,” Danny sputtered. He peeked over at Sam. Quite different from himself, Sam was standing straight up, confidence apparent on her face. She smiled and waved. He did his best to copy her confidence. His first thought was right—she was definitely the expert here. If she thought they could pretend like they’d done nothing unusual, well. He’d follow her lead.

“Very nice to see you, Mayor Masters. Danny forgot to mention you when he told me about his family. I would’ve insisted on a proper introduction,” she said, and _oh,_ Danny was impressed. He could see the gears turning in Vlad’s head already, as he put together what she wanted him to think: _Danny’s sneaking around with a girlfriend._

Then, recognition fell across his face. “Oh! Sam Manson! A pleasure to see you outside of a boring formal function. Well. I’d hate to ruin your date night. Perhaps we can all meet for dinner one of these days to continue our discussion?” Vlad’s tone was soft, if a little conniving. Danny couldn’t say he was surprised. Vlad would’ve expected him to tell him about a girlfriend. He actually would’ve, if he had one. “But I’d hate for your parents to overwhelm her. Fear not, your secret’s safe with me. You two had best get out of here. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“Thanks, Uncle Vlad,” Danny said. Vlad had always been good at knowing what Danny needed in a given moment, even if he didn’t fully understand the circumstances.

“It was nice to see you,” Sam said as they slipped past the older man. Danny grabbed his coat off the wall and ushered the two of them out the door. Vlad locked up behind him.

Danny and Sam walked a block down the street before they spoke. “You didn’t warn me the mayor was hanging out in your living room!” she hissed.

Danny put up his hands in a placating gesture. “I didn’t know! He came by for dinner, but I don’t know why he didn’t leave after.” He paused. “You know Vlad?”

Sam looked reluctant. “He’s… an acquaintance,” she said. He decided not to push it.

“Do you want me to walk you home or anything?” Danny asked instead.

Sam waved him off again. “I’ll go fast on the walk home. I’ll be fine.”

Danny nodded. When she rounded a corner, he reached for his other half and felt the change wash over him like a wave of cold water. He turned invisible and floated high above her, watching her path until he was confident that she wouldn’t come to any harm.

Then he kicked off backward to Fenton Works. He dove through the front door, invisible and intangible. Vlad had gone home, it seemed. Danny sunk through the floor to the lab. The stainless steel shone cold green, reflecting light from the portal onto every other surface in the basement. Danny dropped to his feet without a sound.

He must’ve forgotten to close the portal, he noted vaguely. He didn’t dwell on it.

He leapt through the otherworldly gate.


	5. Chapter 5

Daniel was hiding something.

Vlad had thought this for a long time, but previously he’d just put it down to paranoia. What could Daniel possibly have to hide? He was an honest boy with honest aspirations. But after their encounter in the kitchen, he just couldn’t shake the feeling. It was intuition, the same intuition he’d followed all his life to become a successful businessman and politician. He’d follow this intuition to become a better godfather, too.

So what would Daniel keep from him? It wasn’t as if the boy told him everything. He’d always been private. Vlad liked to think he was imitating his godfather and trying to cultivate an intriguing air of mystery, but he never actively _hid_ from Vlad.

Was he really so determined to keep his relationship a secret? _Or,_ an irritating voice whispered from his subconscious, _were they even in a relationship?_

Vlad thought back to their encounter. Daniel had sported dark bags under his eyes. He’d always tended to have them (he, like the other Fentons, was prone to all-nighters), but it was even worse since he’d entered college. Then the girl—she was a horrible influence in his life, he was certain. Daniel would never feel the need to sneak around, but Samantha Manson? He was well aware of her relationship with her parents and the rebellious streak she’d maintained since middle school. She must be rubbing off on him. She had to be.

A terrible thought formed in his mind, something that he hardly wanted to consider, but for Daniel’s sake, he had to: were they doing drugs? Daniel had looked so unwell.

Vlad sighed. He rubbed the soft satin of his gloves against his temples. He’d have to have a discussion with Daniel later. As much as he wanted to ensure the safety of his son—his _god_ son—he unfortunately had more pressing matters to deal with.

Vlad floated up from the prison yard to one of the guard towers. Two guards, former convicts that he’d freed and turned to his side, bowed to their superior.

“Dismissed,” Vlad said, barely giving them a second look. The two ghosts bowed again and swiftly exited the tower through the ceiling.

Vlad took a seat on the table in the center of the room, doing his best to maintain a regal composition. He really ought to arrange for a meeting room in the prison. It was a shame Walker’s office had been blown to pieces during his takeover of the place. This room, with all its control panels and windows, was hardly suitable space for guests and anything of a private nature.

Vlad waited until three vultures appeared on the horizon. He bared his teeth in anger as they slowly approached the window, tapping his claws impatiently against the wood of the table. The vultures slipped through the glass.

“You’re late,” he growled.

“Sorry Plasmius sir, these old wings don’t work the way they used to,” the eldest vulture said.

The three perched on the counter across from Vlad, waiting for his directions.

“Well? What news do you bring?” he asked, motioning for them to hurry up. Why did he even employ them? After all the years they’d served him they still couldn’t deduce when he wanted them to perform a simple, obvious task. Did they think he summoned them for casual conversation? Ridiculous.

The younger vulture spoke for the three brothers. “We have visited the kingdoms you asked, sir. I’ll read you their responses,” he said, then held up a scroll that was clutched in his left claw. “The Castle of Mattingly sends their regards. While they appreciate the removal of Walker’s influence from the region, they are not convinced of your good intention for the Ghost Zone as a whole. They ask that we ask them their position on an alliance a century and ten years from now, after they’ve had sufficient time to evaluate us.”

Vlad pinched his nose. A hundred years? He could hardly wait a hundred years. He had no doubt he would remain that long in one form or another, but he needed to rule _now._ And this was only one task of many! Ancients only knew how long his subsequent goals would take to accomplish. He had a legacy to build for young Daniel while the boy still drew breath.

He had, over many grueling years, come to terms with the fact that he would never have Maddie. Or as close to acceptance as he thought was possible. He would never love again. He would never marry, and he would never have children of his own. Thus he doted on Maddie’s children instead, and while he loved Jasmine dearly, he’d always felt a special bond with Daniel.

He was determined to provide anything Daniel could ever need in his life. He would want for nothing. He would have everything. He _was_ everything.

“Read the next one,” Vlad commanded.

The vulture complied. “The Order of the Black Begonia initially refused, but after divulging further information as instructed, they came around. Ahriman sends his regards and a promise of cooperation.”

Well. The Order of the Black Begonia wasn’t exactly trustworthy, but that was why he’d sought them out in the first place. Keep your enemies closer and all that. Still, for current events, their cooperation would be an enormous boon. He could weed out dissent later.

The vulture continued on. “We also secured the cooperation of the Virgo Necropolis, the Stalkers, and, under a mercenary agreement, the army of the Resonance-of-Light Flats.”

“And the rest?” Vlad asked.

“Declined, sir,” the vulture said, before falling into a coughing fit.

Well. Four out of nine armies was hardly the worst result he could have had. Combined with the cooperation of the prisoners he’d freed, it would be enough, if only just.

The vulture still hadn’t stopped coughing, and Vlad was still waiting for information. He fired an ectoblast at the offending vulture, who squawked, then began preening magenta from his feathers. “And their arrival?” Vlad asked.

The middle vulture answered this time, in a voice even rougher than that of his two brothers. “The Order of the Black Begonia will arrive within the hour. Virgo Necropolis requested seven days to prepare, as is customary. The Stalkers and the Resonance-of-Light Flats estimated a few days.”

Finally, some respectable help was on the way.

“Very good. Dismissed,” Vlad said. The birds scattered immediately.

Vlad was just beginning to consider that perhaps one of his plans would actually finish on schedule for once when he heard the prison klaxons howling.

His lips curled back and he set his jaw. He went headfirst through the prison wall, careening into a flight around his territory. Who would dare approach such a fortress?

Vlad saw a shock of white and he roared, a deep rumble from his chest that developed into a full-fledged howl once it was free of his lips. Phantom. Stupid, impudent child. Hadn’t he learned?

Vlad let something like gravity take hold and he plummeted toward the prison yard, where Phantom was picking himself up off the ground. It seemed he’d flown face-first into his ghost shield. Idiotic. He should have learned by now that his new ghost shields were only penetrable by those carrying the proper electronic identification. But Phantom wasn’t one to use his head for anything but tackling and the occasional bite.

“You senseless boy,” Vlad sneered. “Were you even _trying_ to be stealthy? Is this truly the best you can do?”

Phantom narrowed his eyes, narrow green shining through. “What the hell are you doing with Pariah’s Keep? Don’t tell me you’re stupid enough to release him twice!”

Vlad lowered himself to the ground so that they were at eye level with each other. He folded his arms behind his back. “Don’t speak to me of stupidity when in the years we’ve known each other, you have yet to comprehend even one aspect of what it is that I am trying to achieve. If you would only listen to me—”

Phantom scoffed, throwing his head back defiantly. “No, you listen to me—I will _never_ cooperate with you. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you.”

_What a waste of potential._

Vlad threw his hands out in front of him again, this time with a thermos in his grip. His palm slid deftly over the thermos’s cap and he popped it off with practiced ease. Phantom gasped and leapt backwards quickly—but not quickly enough. Blue light stained the white material of the younger ghost’s suit. Phantom hissed with rage, eyes red and teeth snapping together as he came to bare his fangs just before his face was drawn into the thermos.

Vlad put the cap back on and activated the electronic lock. “Unlike you, boy, I _learn_ from our encounters. Use this time to reflect. It would be a shame to witness history from a cage, don’t you think?” The thermos rumbled, and the boy uttered a string of curses at him, his voice echoing with raw emotion that was attempting to form into his Ghostly Wail. It was to no avail, of course—he’d learned after last time to add a layer of noise filtration to the core of the thermos. But that didn’t stop Phantom from testing its limits. He was always, _always_ pushing boundaries, finding new and unique solutions to staggering problems with an indefatigable genius that was entirely wasted on the youth.

Perhaps, if given enough time to simmer down, he could be convinced of reason. Vlad resolved to speak with him later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty everyone that reads this I love you, yes you ;u;


	6. Chapter 6

Tucker didn’t particularly care to waste his time on Danny Fenton. It wasn’t personal, it was just a matter of efficiency and resource investment. Put plainly, it wasn’t worth it. The guy was: creepy, aloof, and quite possibly the worst roommate ever.

Tucker had logged proof of each point. First point was Creepy, or more forgivingly, Weird. But Tucker leaned on Creepy most days. There was the way Danny could open their door without making a sound, somehow silencing the scraping of his key in the lock and the squeak of the door hinges. Tucker had waited once, and watched. There was no explanation. He opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it… except it was like watching a silent film. Tucker had left immediately after Danny arrived and he had heard the familiar click of the door latching behind him. He couldn’t blame it on the door, couldn’t convince himself that perhaps the squeaky hinges had been greased, because it made no noise and then it did. It wasn’t the door. It was something about _Danny._

Then there was the way the light would catch his blue eyes, and for a moment, Tucker only saw green. Shadows seemed to cling to him, his teeth were _just too sharp_ and _just too long,_ and Tucker had never, not once, seen him sleep. Not unless he slept with his eyes open, a possibility Tucker hadn’t discounted.

Second point: Aloof. Tucker had made an effort to be friends when they’d first moved into the dorms. He really had. But every time he’d suggested they watch a movie or go to a party, Danny had declined. On the one occasion he’d agreed, it was to grab lunch from the cafeteria. He then spent the entire meal staring at one of the elderly cooks. He ended the meal by taking his plate without as much as a goodbye and left via a staff door, and Tucker never saw that cook again (another tally for the Creepy column). Conversations in their shared room went over just as well—the most he’d gotten Danny to say in one go was something bland about the weather.

And third, Danny was a terrible roommate. He never washed his used dishes—they just sat in a pile on his desk, forgotten. He never took out the trash. He’d somehow stained one of Tucker’s shirts neon green, and when Danny noticed, the shirt disappeared that night without explanation or apology. Danny had a horrible habit of leaving their window open despite the early arrival of winter. And the worst, the icing on the cake, was how often he left. On average, Danny would be in and out of their room three times in a night. The space between exiting and returning was variable—sometimes it was only a few minutes, sometimes it was hours. But every time, Tucker would wake up. Not to any sound of course, but from the flood of light from the hall (even if Danny’s… _aura_ made it darker than it had any right to be).

After three weeks of living together, Tucker decided it just wasn’t worth it to try and befriend Danny, or have anything beyond the required contact that came with cohabiting. There was something _wrong_ with him, and it was something he didn’t want to be a part of.

But still, Tucker found himself pacing circles in their room. It was just after three in the morning. Danny still hadn’t come back to their room. That was unusual, even for him.

Tucker knew he was being ridiculous, overreacting and letting his anxiety run rampant. Danny had mentioned he was going to visit his family (in a rare mood where he actually spoke more than basic pleasantries), he must have decided to spend the night.

But something felt _wrong._

Tucker felt goose bumps forming on his arms and he shivered. He grabbed a knitted blanket off his desk chair and wrapped it around himself, then returned to pacing, trying to shake the dread that pooled in his stomach and prickled his skin. Danny was fine. He was worrying over nothing. Shit like this was why he didn’t have any friends. _Get it together, Foley._

Tucker sat down on the edge of his bed. It was clear he needed to sleep—not having enough rest was contributing to this… he hesitated to call it a panic attack. It wasn’t. He had enough of those, he knew this was something different. Again, the thought that _something was wrong_ rang through his mind. Tucker drew in a deep breath, then exhaled.

He realized he could see his breath.

Was the window open? Was that why he had gotten so cold? No, he’d definitely checked it when he’d first entered the room, as was one of his new habits.

Something flickered on the edge of his vision, a flash of green and baby blue. Tucker turned but it was gone. Tucker drew the blanket closer. Was he finally losing it? Hallucinating and delusional? Another flash of color. He caught red eyes staring at him from the dark, surrounded by green and draped in blue. An image wormed its way into his mind, fuzzy and ill-defined: a young woman with green skin and a braid of smooth, honeyed hair peeking out from under a white veil. She wore a dress, crisscrossed by a diamond pattern of blues, and he caught a white hem of an underdress peeking out from beneath. An elaborate golden amulet set with an emerald hung over her breast. She stared at him.

The image dissolved as quickly as it had formed, and he could only recall her face and the concerned expression she wore. Tucker sat on the edge of the bed, stuck in place by fear.

The figure flickered into existence once again by the door. He felt cool breath against his cheek and a voice whispered to him directly into his ear: “You can help.”

Tucker grit his teeth. What the hell should he do? Should he run? Would that anger _whatever_ this was? Where would he even run? Would it follow him?

Before Tucker could come to a decision, the lights in the room blinked on and off, one by one. He heard a low droning sound like a hundred bees buzzing. The figure remained by the door, a shadow left dark despite the unsteady pulsating of the lights. There was something in her hands.

Then, pitch black. Tucker felt tears forming in the corners of his eyes. His resolve to run crumbled when a cold touch wiped them away. He felt frostbitten, frozen in place in the most literal sense.

The lights switched on again, all of them at once, then glass exploded until only one overhead light remained. The air warmed. Tucker swallowed hard and counted his breaths until the room stopped rotating. He felt dizzy. He also felt sore and exhausted, like he’d been hit by a truck then run a marathon.

Tucker blinked away the last of his dizziness. It all threatened to turn upside down again when he realized that Danny’s desk chair was sitting in the center of the room, skid marks on the carpet from where it had been dragged (and it hadn’t made a sound).

Tucker stood up shakily, his blanket abandoned. He took a hesitant step forward. Nothing happened. He took another step, and then another. He grabbed the back of the chair and spun it to face him. On the seat, there was…

A thermos?

Yes, it was a thermos, complete with the twist-on mug with a handle on top in a gaudy magenta. The body of it was white and plated, with a few pink buttons scattered about. It was out of place, as commonplace as it was overdesigned and futuristic.

“What the fuck,” Tucker said to the room. He received no answer.

He poked it once. It was freezing, actually freezing—there was a layer of frost on it tracing fractals over the painted metal.

Why would—that _thing,_ whatever it was, bring him a thermos? And what had that been? A ghost? He’d heard for years about strange happenings like this across town. He’d heard urban legends featuring Amity’s own Dracula, a boy with burning white hair and eyes like Greek fire, and a dog that would lead you to the underworld, just to name a few. He’d even heard a few stories about haunted boxes for crying out loud, but he’d never heard anything about thermoses before.

Tucker considered his options. He could throw it out, but didn’t haunted artifacts have a tendency to return? He really wanted it to be gone. Was he supposed to burn it? Salt it? Holy water? He could bring it to his family’s priest. He’d have a better idea of what to do with it…

Or he could just open it.

That was definitely a terrible idea. It was a stupid, terrible idea. There was probably something evil in the thermos—that’s how this kind of thing always worked in movies. He’d probably open it and release a demon or something.

Still, an LED display on the side reading _LOCKED_ sung to him like a siren’s call.

Tucker stared down at the thermos. Now that he was able to breathe again, thoughts were racing through his head like a swarm of obnoxious flies. He swatted them away, only interested in one: Danny Fenton was from _that_ Fenton family, wasn’t he? The local mad scientists who claimed to hunt ghosts. How many other Fentons could there be?

Tucker had never been a big believer in the paranormal, preferring science and technology to that which he couldn’t see, but that was before he’d _seen it_. The evidence was in the chair and the thermos and the broken glass scattered across the carpet and desks.

He also thought the evidence pointed to his roommate somehow being involved. He came from a family of ghost hunters, and now there’s ghosts in the room—Tucker didn’t think it was much of a leap (and it definitely qualified for the list under Creepy and Worst Roommate Ever).

The thermos lights blinked again, and the display refreshed: _LOCKED_.

Tucker ground his teeth. He definitely shouldn’t open the futuristic device that a ghost had brought him, which clearly contained some further mystery. He really shouldn’t.

“Fuck it,” he said. He picked up the thermos and turned it over— _nope, abort, get gloves—_ and he turned it over again. A handful of buttons and a sliding switch. Tucker tried to unscrew the cap to remove obvious solutions, but it seemed to be held in place magnetically. Ok, a magnetic lock. Now what was the mechanism to release it?

Twelve buttons sat on the side next to the text display—they were all unmarked. Tucker pressed one. The display refreshed again: _* _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _._

Bingo.

Tucker ran his thumbs (now protected from the cold under a thin layer of leather) over the panels. They were all screwed down. Good thing he had a set of electronics screwdrivers. Tucker started removing the casing, revealing wires, batteries, back-up batteries, a couple computer boards, and unsettling tubes filled with a hot, magenta substance (and how those were so hot to the touch while everything surrounding was freezing, he didn’t know, but it only piqued his interest more) feeding into the batteries.

Tucker carefully tugged out one of the boards. USB port, perfect. Tucker grabbed his old laptop (God only knew what would happen if this went south, and he wasn’t going to risk frying Charlotte) and a USB cable, then plugged it in and waited for it to boot.

It brought up a Vladco desktop. That was… interesting, if only to find something so mundane in such an unusual object. He’d been expecting something unique.

Tucker ran his standard, automated penetration program. No dice. That was fine by him—it wouldn’t be any fun if they made it easy. He cracked his knuckles.

It took him about 20 minutes to set-up a brute-force attack on the thermos’s security. With twelve buttons and a ten character password, that put him at… Tucker plugged a few numbers into his phone. About 62 billion possible passwords. Pathetic, honestly. He’d have this done within fifteen minutes.

Still, the wait was agonizing, and he had nothing to do while it worked but consider what a terrible, _terrible_ idea this all was.

There was a click, and the display refreshed once more: _CAUTION: UNLOCKED._

Tucker tugged at his shirt, suddenly feeling too warm. Too late, he’d already gone this far, he was going to finish this. _Rip the bandaid off._ He unscrewed the thermos cap. A blue light spewed forth from the opening.

He heard sounds like something scratching at the sides of the thermos and he threw it out of his hands. He pulled his snapback off and dug his fingers into his hair. _Why am I like this?_ he wondered briefly.

A guy about his age spilled out from the thermos surrounded by a puddle of green mist. He was _definitely_ a ghost. _This was such a terrible idea._

“Dora?” the man groaned, his voice echoing.

The other man pushed himself up to his feet— _no,_ he was floating above the floor. His hair was white and moved as though he were caught in a current underwater, and Tucker noted vaguely it was on fire at the ends, spitting white embers. A black suit clung to his skin, a white zipper in the center trailing from his spine up to the white knit turtleneck. There was a line of white—what was that, spandex?—under the neck, coming to a point and accentuating his shoulder blades. There was also white padding over the more vulnerable parts of his body—shoulders, elbows, knees... It reminded Tucker of a superhero’s costume or a futuristic spacesuit.

The man turned around, a gloved hand running through his hair. His eyes were glowing green.

_Eyes like Greek fire—_

The ghost stopped moving as soon as he saw Tucker. “Shit,” he said, and his image became fuzzy.

Tucker remained silent. He’d seen it—could _still_ see that the ghost had white hair, green eyes… he was the ghost from the urban legends. Before he’d gone blurry, Tucker saw that he had fangs and pointed ears. He had a scar under his chin. He had Danny’s nose.

“Danny?” Tucker said under his breath, very hesitantly.

“Fuck,” Danny said.


	7. Chapter 7

Danny should’ve known better than to rely on luck. His luck had run out the day he’d been fried in the portal, _when he’d felt his life violently seep out of every one of his blood cells, when he’d felt his heart beat its last, the last time he’d really felt heat—_

 _Bad thoughts,_ he reminded himself. _Think about something else._

It wasn’t hard to find something else to think about. Between Plasmius, Pariah’s Keep, Tucker, and Sam, there was plenty else to worry about. And Dora, too—she’d sensed his energy in his dorm room, it was the only way she could have known to bring him here. What did she make of this? And with Tucker calling him by name… He passed her a glance. She had a look like sadness on her face. Did she think—? Of course she did. She thought Tucker was someone he knew when he was alive.

Technically she’d be right. She just didn’t know that the concept of ‘when he was alive’ was flexible.

Tucker was staring at him, trying to see him clearly between his blurred edges and the fact that it was in his nature to slip in and out of visibility like the movement of the tides. Unlike Sam, Tucker didn’t have the Sight. He wouldn’t be able to see Danny clearly unless Danny forced it or nature did, and unfortunately nature had already given him a good view before Danny remembered to distort his image.

Danny wished he’d finalized that alliance with Technus. Maybe then Dora would have gone to him for help to open the thermos instead of looking for help in the Living World, and he wouldn’t be trying to clean up this mess at four in the morning. He really just wanted to go to bed.

“Dora, could you…?” he trailed off in Necrotic.

Dora’s expression softened as her lips tilted into a smile. “Of course, Phantom,” she said. She floated over to the window behind her. “And if you wish to discuss this later… you are always welcome in Mattingly.” Danny’s face flushed, and he nodded. She faded through the glass.

That was one risk to his secret dealt with, which just left Tucker. Danny had worked too hard and too long for his secret to be blown in one moment of weakness. There had to be something he could do, some way to salvage this.

Tucker straightened his back and held his shoulders up. He looked confident, but Danny could taste his fear in the air. He made up his mind quickly: improbability was on his side. If he scared Tucker enough, he’d probably question the reality of what he’d seen.

Danny laughed, a deep, dark thing, and he made it so it was heard from every angle of the room in a cacophonous echo. Tucker tensed and put on a brave face, trying not to look intimidated. The taste of fear remained the same, addictive sour-honey to a sense that wasn’t really tasted but felt in his emotional subconscious. Why didn’t the fear taste stronger? Why wasn’t this working?

“If you think you can throw me off by being creepy, news flash, you’re creepy _all the time,”_ Tucker said, and he would have sounded bored if Danny didn’t know he was at least _somewhat_ scared. He pulled out his phone and began to read from it. “September 4th, you were sitting at your desk staring at the wall and I could see right through you. September 6th, I walked into the room, and it looked like you and half a dozen items around the room fell out of the air. September 10th, I came home late, and you woke up and glared me down with glowing eyes... Should I go on? That’s just the first week of us living together, I’ve got more.”

Danny’s nostrils flared, and he hissed. “What do you want?”

“I want to know what the hell is going on!” Tucker shouted, gripping the seat of the chair so tightly his knuckles paled. “It’s four in the fucking morning and there’s a—a _princess_ haunting my dorm room, I had to hack into a soup can, and you’re, I don’t know, what the fuck are you?”

Danny grabbed a fistful of his hair and exhaled slowly. His reaction was—normal. Why wouldn’t it be normal? Tucker wasn’t a ghost, or a ghost hunter, or a government plant. He wasn’t an enemy. He was just a college kid with shitty luck in roommates. Danny took another deep breath and let Tucker see him.

Danny stared Tucker down, waiting for him to say anything else. He didn’t. He just sat, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, irritation rolling off of him in waves.

“Sorry,” Danny said, unable to take the silence anymore.

Danny willed what warmth he had left to spread out from his chest. White fire burned away his ghastly visage as he buried as many of his supernatural qualities as he could deep inside himself. Tucker watched with slack lips and wide eyes.

“Thank you for getting me out of the thermos,” Danny said, because no good deed should go unnoticed. “I’m,” he stopped. “I don’t know how to explain this.”

“Did you die?” Tucker asked, wetting his lips.

Danny bristled and bit back a growl. Tucker didn’t know any better, he reminded himself. It was an obvious question to a mortal. They could talk about ghost etiquette when his eyes weren’t burning from all the hours he’d spent awake (he didn’t count passing out in the thermos as rest). “Uh. Sort of. Yes. Not exactly,” Danny said. “No, yeah, I definitely died. I just came back.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Tucker said. His confusion tickled Danny’s skin.

“Sorry, sorry. You know my parents? Jack and Maddie Fenton? Ghost hunters?” Danny asked.

Tucker sucked in a breath and rasped, “Did they…?”

Tucker’s disgust was tangible in the air, and Danny gagged and shook his head furiously. “Oh god, no. No. They built a portal to the Ghost Zone, or the Underworld, Realm of the Dead, Infinite Realms, whatever you want to call it. When they finished it, it didn’t work… so I fixed it, but I forgot about the backup generator…”

Danny rubbed the back of his neck. “I was…”

 _The portal whirred. Metal rings rotated, clicking together, a rhythmic_ chk chk chk. _The lights in the lab blew out, and Danny prayed for the first time in his life, begged to God above that the circuit blew and that the portal wouldn’t have enough power to open._

_The pitch black of the room darkened into abyssal purple. Danny tried to pick himself up from where he’d thrown himself at the floor. Thirty seconds. That would be enough to get out of the portal. He pushed up._

“I was—”

 _His foot was stuck._ Chk chk chk. _He felt the drone of the portal vibrating in his bones, corrosive. He wasn’t going to make it out in time. He reached forward, resolving to crawl._

Chk chk chk.

_He was at the bottom of the ocean. He was numb. His body was collapsing under the weight of the miles of water above him, but he only felt cold as the liquid filled his mouth and tore through his skin. The water was vinegar on his tongue._

_A green glow appeared before him, a beacon of warmth and the only feature he could see in the water. He reached for it. No, it was hot, too hot, it was electric—he was pulling his hand back but it wouldn’t let him go, the warmth bore holes through his fingertips and clawed into his arteries. Danny shrieked and choked on vinegar. He kept screaming until there was nothing left in his lungs but acid._

_The green was incinerating him from the inside out. His skin was still cold against the water. He was weightless, pressed down by the force of a lime green black hole. He watched, uncomprehending, as his hand unraveled in strips like a bandage undone. Only a glowing shade remained, the smudge of something violently erased from the page, a phantom limb that had burned away yet still kept burning._

_There was nothing of him left, and time ceased to be until the second hand ticked backward._ Chk. Chk. Chk.

 _He was putting himself back together, hot flesh reforming in a rush of lava and bones crackling with shifting ice. He was eaten away by fire and put out in snow. He was struck again and again by green hot lightning and doused in frozen acid and struck and doused and struck, being forged into something different, something_ other.

_He was on fire and frozen and he was burning cold and he was—_

_He was—_

He was gripping his shoulders, Tucker was gripping his shoulders and shaking him gently, and Danny was in his dorm room. His cheeks were wet. He blinked tears from his eyes.

“Are you ok?” Tucker asked, his voice so quiet the sound was nearly lost in the foot between them.

Danny’s hands shook. “I’m fine,” he said.

Tucker arched a brow, but held his tongue. Danny phased through Tucker’s hands and walked to his bed.

“We can talk later,” Danny whispered.

Tucker said nothing.

Danny collapsed into his bed and, despite every instinct in him screaming his vulnerability in Tucker’s presence, he was asleep before his head reached the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I had five false starts to this chapter before I finally had something I liked.
> 
> Thanks for the comments+kudos I love every single one of you


	8. Chapter 8

Tucker considered it a solid achievement that he’d managed to get an hour of sleep, even if it wasn’t uninterrupted. If he relaxed enough to really start sleeping, the questions racing through his mind would appear in his dreams until, inevitably, he woke up again.

Danny didn’t fare any better. When Tucker woke he’d see Danny writhing in the bed, clawing at the sheets beneath him, eerily silent. Twice, he woke up without warning, once with blue eyes and once with green. He looked around him as though he was searching for a threat, glared at Tucker, and then fell asleep again. The glares kept Tucker from trying to wake him from his obvious nightmares—God only knew what he might do. Don’t poke a sleeping bear and all that.

Tucker still didn’t understand how Danny was what he was, but at least he had some inkling, now. Danny had said himself that he’d, somehow, died-but-survived in some sort of tragedy involving his parents’ portal to the afterlife. When he’d gotten that blank look like he was watching a movie on a screen no one else could see, Tucker decided he didn’t need to know the details of the event, but he definitely wanted to know what it meant for Danny now (and, by extension, Tucker).

It was 6:23 am, Thursday morning. He should be worried about passing his Computer Engineering quiz, or the apparent storm rolling in. Tucker peered out the window, seeing dervishes kicking dead leaves in circles across the streets until they were buried under the thick cover of fog. The city had that uncomfortable green color like a tornado was ready to make an unseasonal appearance.

Tucker jumped when he saw a pale, callused hand reach for the curtain and throw it aside. He glanced over his shoulder—it was just Danny, black hair disheveled and sporting dark bags under his eyes, not another ghostly visitor.

“Morning,” Tucker said dumbly, not sure what else to say.

Danny was glaring out the window. “Shit, I should have known better,” Danny said, and Tucker saw lime green plasma gathering in (clawed) hands. White fire spread across Danny’s frame and then he was a ghost again, flitting in and out of focus like Tucker’s mind couldn’t make up how far away he was.

Danny kept staring, muttering curses under his breath.

“What are you talking about?” Tucker asked. He was getting really, _really_ sick of not understanding what was going on. Had he seen something outside?

Danny looked at Tucker—and he hadn’t moved, one moment he was looking out the window, and then, like Tucker was looking at a picture slideshow, he was looking at Tucker. Eerie. Then Danny vanished entirely. Tucker looked around and found him sticking his hand inside his mattress. He pulled out a thermos like the one Tucker had freed him from, only this one was green and white. Danny threw it at Tucker. “This can capture ghosts,” he said, voice echoing through the room and rattling Tucker’s ears.

“I gathered,” Tucker said.

Danny ignored him, rummaging through their room and pulling strange-looking guns, glass bottles filled with neon green fluid, and medical supplies from other bizarre hiding places. He threw a belt at Tucker. “This will keep them from influencing you. Put it on.”

Tucker didn’t. “What’s going on?”

From what Tucker could tell (as Danny was still glitching across his vision), Danny was throwing his growing collection of junk into his backpack, along with a handful of snacks and water bottles. “It’s bad. _Apocalyptic bad_. I need you to go to FentonWorks and tell my parents Pariah Dark is back. Don’t tell them about me—they have no idea I’m half-ghost. Do you understand? Can you do that?”

Tucker blinked, but Danny just stared, his phosphorescent green eyes boring into his skull. “Dude,” he said, trying to make sense of anything that was happening. “What?”

Danny ran his hands through his snowy hair, grinding his teeth in obvious frustration. “There isn’t time. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Will you do this for me?”

The fear Danny felt was tangible in the room, evident on his face and the way he held a defensive posture, but at the same time, Tucker sensed hardened resolve. His defensive pose was a practiced one, and there was determination in the set of his jaw and the glint in his eyes. More than anything, Tucker could tell Danny was serious in a way Tucker hadn’t seen in anybody before.

_Apocalyptic bad?_

Tucker sensed there weren’t any other real options available to him. Whatever this was, it was sink or swim. “Ok. Yeah. Alright, I’ll do it. FentonWorks, Pariah Dark, ix-nay on the ecret-say. You owe me fucking majorly when this is over,” Tucker said.

  
Danny looked like a weight had been taken from his shoulders (and a hundred more still remained). He put his cold, incorporeal hands on Tucker’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “I swear on my grave, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know if I make it back. Go to FentonWorks, and don’t stop for _anything_ until you get there,” Danny said. He bent over slightly, then shot out through their ceiling so quickly Tucker’s brain couldn’t keep up.

The room fell silent save for the sound of rain pounding against the window.

Tucker clutched the belt and thermos in shaking hands. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand anything at all. He felt like he was wearing blinders and trying to navigate a maze.

He looked at the thermos and tried to see the threads of logical continuity. If he needed something to catch ghosts, then ghosts were the threat. Obvious. But if Tucker, who had never seen a ghost in his life until four hours ago, would need something to defend against them… was he being targeted? That wouldn’t make any sense. Why would he be a target so suddenly? Unless it was a more generalized threat…

_Apocalyptic._

Sink or swim. Tucker threw on the belt, put on a coat and shoes, and took off out the door and down the stairs. He raced out of the dorm and slid across ice on the sidewalk, nearly crashing into a couple other students. He jumped to his feet, leapt into the grass, and kept running.

His lungs burned and he felt like he was choking. He wasn’t used to this kind of exertion, or any kind of physical activity at all. He could only feel his legs through the vibrations of his feet hitting the ground. The freezing rain contributed to the numbness of his legs. The only thing keeping him going was adrenaline and the fear of what might happen if he stopped.

Tucker quickly made it off campus, then through a couple blocks of locally-owned shops. He was halfway into a residential district when something started watching him. He felt the eyes on him like lead blanketing his skin, weighing him down. He shuddered and gripped the thermos tighter between his fingers. He felt a static shock on his shoulder, then another on his back. Tucker’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept running.

Something tried to grab his wrist and Tucker gave an undignified squeak. He uncapped the thermos and pointed it behind him, then pressed the button. Something writhed in the blue light, but he couldn’t make out what. He put the cap back on.

Tucker could see the weird UFO attachment of FentonWorks over the roofs now. He was only a couple blocks away. He still felt like he was being watched, and he saw shadows flitting out of the corners of his eyes. The weight he felt before was growing heavier. There were ghosts, that much was obvious, but Tucker couldn’t see them, couldn’t tell how many there were. He threw open the thermos ahead of him and used the light as a shield to press onward.

Tucker could see the door now, just across the street. He gasped for breath and pressed forward for the final push. A truck swerved out of his way and honked. The driver yelled obscenities out the window. Tucker ignored him.

He shot up the steps to FentonWorks and started pounding on the door. He could still feel the eyes on him. How many were there? Where were they? Why didn’t Danny give him anything to _see_ the ghosts? And _what the hell was going on?_

Tucker heard shuffling from inside the house. He shifted on his feet uncomfortably. _Open the door, open the door, open the door—_

The door creaked open. Tucker jumped inside and slammed the door shut behind him. Jack Fenton stared down at him, half a smile and furrowed brows each trying to claim dominance over his expression. “Tucker?” he said.

Tucker wheezed, trying but failing to get oxygen into his lungs. He slid down against the door behind him and pressed his head against the door. He didn’t feel eyes on him anymore. He was safe for a moment.

“You alright there kiddo?” Jack asked, bending his knees to better look at Tucker.

“Pariah Dark is back,” Tucker said.

Jack Fenton’s expression steeled, and Tucker passed out.

* * *

Tucker woke up on a couch somewhere unfamiliar. He shot up.

“Whoa, calm down! You passed out,” a red-headed woman said. Jazz. He remembered her from dorm move-in day—she'd come with Jack to help Danny move in. Everything rushed back into his head. He was at the Fentons, it was _apocalyptic,_ ghosts were chasing him, Danny had given him instructions—

“Pariah Dark is back,” he said.

Jazz nodded. She sat up a little straighter in her wooden chair, which was set beside the couch Tucker currently occupied. “That’s what you told my dad. He and Mom just set up the ghost shield around the city. We’ll be safe in here,” she said. “Tucker, where’s Danny? Why isn’t he with you?”

 _Ix-nay on the ecret-say,_ Tucker remembered. “I don’t know,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie.

Her brows knit together. “He’s not at the dorm?” she asked. Tucker shook his head. “We can’t get ahold of him…” she stopped. “How do you know about Pariah Dark?”

“A, uh—a ghost told me,” he said, and that wasn’t a lie, either. He hoped none of this would come back to bite him in the ass. He hated lying. _We get caught in the webs we weave,_ his mom always said. But he’d made a promise and he intended to keep it, for better or for worse.

Danny was going to have to get creative to make up this debt and the leap of faith Tucker was giving him.

“What ghost? What did they look like?” Jazz asked.

Tucker wet his lips and shrugged, hiding his shaking hands in his jacket. “I, uh, can’t see ghosts. Didn’t see anything. Only heard him.”

“Your—well, _our—_ thermos had six ghosts in it. How’d you catch them then?” she asked.

“Point and shoot at whatever’s trying to grab me,” he said.

“Where’d you get the thermos from?”

Was she interrogating him? It definitely felt like it.

“Found it in Danny’s stuff,” he said.

She looked at him with narrowed eyes. Then she smiled brightly, any trace of suspicion buried under her cheery demeanor. “Well, you’ve got good instincts. Don’t let Mom and Dad know. They’ll see potential and talk your ear off about ghost hunting,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

Tucker squeezed some of the fabric of his coat. “I have no idea what’s going on,” he admitted. “I didn’t believe in ghosts until this morning. Who’s Pariah Dark?”

Jazz chewed her lip. “I’m not sure you really want to know,” she said. “It’s—well, it’s kind of insane.”

Was their entire family so hesitant to give up any information? Tucker was ready to pull his hair out. “I did _not_ just run all the way here to not get an explanation why,” he said. “Who’s Pariah Dark? What the hell’s going on? Are we in danger?”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to invalidate your experience, I just… most people don’t want to get involved with our family and our ghost weirdness,” Jazz explained all too calmly. It put him on edge, how used to this she must be when he felt like he was drowning. “Pariah Dark is the King of All Ghosts. He first showed up three years ago. That’s the only other time our Ecto-Exodus alarm has gone off, so we already thought he might be back, but we weren’t sure until you came by. And we definitely don’t know _how_ he came back.”

“King of All Ghosts?” Tucker asked.

“Ghosts come from the Ghost Zone. Pariah Dark is the ruler of that realm. Last time he was here, he tried to take control of our world, too,” Jazz said.

Tucker let that sink in. “What happened last time?” he asked, leaning back into the pillows behind him.

Jazz shifted in her seat. She pressed her hands together in her lap, and her pose shifted into something clinical, disconnected. No, maybe she wasn’t _calm_ so much as _compartmentalizing._ “Pariah Dark and his right-hand man, the Fright Knight, brought all of Amity Park into the Ghost Zone.”

_What._

“That’s ridiculous,” Tucker said. “Another dimension? I’ve lived here my whole life. I’d know if I’d been to another dimension!”

Jazz remained cool and collected. It was making Tucker’s blood boil. “You don’t have the Sight. You wouldn’t have been able to see through the illusions the ghosts put up. Nobody did. They just thought it was some kind of storm.”

Tucker ran his fingers through his hair, mentally connecting her story to the storm raging outside. No, no, no, it was impossible. _Impossible like having a half-dead roommate._ Tucker groaned. “Ok. Say that really happened. How’d you guys fix it?”

Finally, the façade broke. Jazz turned her head, a frown tugging at her lips. “We didn’t.”

“You’re not going to tell me that we’re still in the Ghost Zone, are you? Because then I’ll know you’re full of shit,” Tucker said.

Jazz glared at him. “I mean us _Fentons_ didn’t fix it. It was Phantom.”

Ok, he’d take the bait. “Who’s Phantom?”

“You ever heard that urban legend about the ghost with white hair and green eyes? That’s Phantom. Some ghosts have said that he defeated Pariah Dark and locked him in something called the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep.”

Oh, God. Phantom was Danny. Phantom had fought Pariah Dark before. Danny wasn’t sure he was going to make it back alive.

“Yeah. I’ve heard that urban legend a couple times,” Tucker said. He could feel the color draining from his face.

Danny, shitty roommate extraordinaire and part-time spirit, had gone off to fight the King of All Ghosts.

Finally, Tucker felt like he was beginning to understand.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam fell back onto her desk with a _thud,_ the curtain slipping from her fingers and falling to cover the window once more. Green light seeped through black lace. She shuddered.

She should feel something, but she was weightless. From ten feet above herself she watched ghosts fly in murmuration through the heavy rain. The Land of the Dead droned, and the ghosts keened an accompaniment through the howling wind.

A wall of green light pressed outward from the center of town. It passed silently, engulfing her, the only evidence of its touch a tingle on her neck. She looked to the sky. Where before there had been an endless sea of ghosts, now she could barely make out the green and purple swirls and doors of the Ghost Zone through hazy storm clouds.

It was beautiful in a way she hadn’t expected. She knew that three years ago Amity Park had been pulled into the Realm of the Dead, but she hadn’t seen it herself. Pariah Dark had made sure of that.

Lightning cracked and shook the house on its foundations. Sam shuddered, blinking. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She felt like she was going to be sick.

Pariah Dark was back. Amity Park was in the Ghost Zone. She needed to _move._

Sam smacked the heels of her hands against her forehead a couple times, willing the impact to ground her. “Get it together,” she whispered. She shook her head once, twice, then pushed herself off the desk.

A plan. She needed a plan. Sam ran her fingers through her hair. First priority was to find a way to defend herself. She couldn’t be at Pariah’s mercy, not again. Weapons. She had an athame—she grabbed it from her nightstand, ran her fingers over the hilt of the blade. She’d only ever used it to banish weak, thoughtless spirits. A ghost like Pariah? Didn’t matter. It was better than nothing, even if it was only good for an insult.

Sam dressed quickly in her most practical clothes— a thick, long-sleeved shirt, a black denim jacket with a faux-fur lining, brand new jeans without any holes, and her steel-toed combat boots. She wished she had actual armor. Why didn’t she? It wasn’t like she couldn’t afford it. It wouldn’t even be out of place in her wardrobe. She should have been more prepared. She could have asked Ghost Writer for something like that.

Fingers through her hair again. Deep breaths. Stay on target.

She needed weapons. She sheathed the athame and attached it to her hip. She needed _better_ weapons. Danny had said his family was the real deal, and she’d seen the portal herself.

She sucked in a breath. _Danny._ He was psychic, too—his whole family was. Did Pariah Dark know? Did the Fentons know how much danger they were in?

Finally, a plan—she needed to go to Fenton Works and she needed to find Danny.

* * *

Sam’s hand was numb from the rain and from squeezing her athame by the time she arrived at the Fenton’s door, but she didn’t really feel it. She didn’t feel much of anything.

She rang the doorbell. A large man in an orange jumpsuit opened the door. “Jack Fenton at your service! You must be here about the ghost situation?” he said, grinning widely at her. Was this Danny’s dad? He was _huge._ And _orange._ It burned her retinas.

“Is Danny here?” Sam asked.

Jack frowned and shook his head. “We don’t know where he is. But Danno’s smart and resourceful! I’m sure he’s hunkered down somewhere safe until this all blows over,” Jack said. He rubbed his chin and nodded to himself, clearly not entirely convinced. After a few seconds, he noticed the knife in her hand. “Is that an athame? Very old school. Want to come in?”

Sam barely heard him, still thinking through his words. They didn’t know where Danny was? Her heart raced and she gripped her knife tighter. Had Pariah Dark found him?

“Yes,” Sam finally answered. She stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

Two more people came up to the door—a pale redhead in a navy turtleneck and blue jeans, and a black guy with a red snapback and an obnoxious hi-vis-yellow jacket.

“You kids acquaint yourselves. I gotta get back down to the lab and help Mads figure out how we’re going to blast Pariah Dark into next Tuesday,” Jack said.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. Anger flashed hot behind her eyes. “What about Danny? You just said he’s missing!”

“That’s my division,” the redhead cut in. “Go down to the lab, Dad. We’ll find him.” Jack made motions as if he was about to leave, but hesitated. The redhead just beamed at him. “I’m sure he’s fine. And it wouldn’t do for the ghost shields to run out of power before we finish a weapon,” she said. “Then we’ll _all_ be in danger.”

Sam grit her teeth. She had a point, as much as she didn’t like to admit it. Jack seemed to reach the same conclusion. “Yeah. Ok. Keep me posted,” he said, and he jogged out of the living room.

The redhead turned to Sam and held her hand out. “I’m Jazz, Danny’s sister. What’s your name?”

Sam shook her hand. “Sam Manson.”

The curly-haired boy piped in. “And I’m Tucker. I’m Danny’s roommate.” He gave a little wave.

“Hey,” Sam said, waving back. She returned her gaze to Jazz. “So your parents are working on weaponry to take out Pariah Dark, and you’re looking for Danny?”

Jazz nodded. “That’s right. Did you need Danny for something specific, or were you just looking for safety in numbers?” she asked.

“Well, I figured that since you’re all ghost hunters, you’d be fighting,” Sam said. “I was looking for weapons. This,” Sam motioned to the athame, “is probably not enough for the Fright Knight, let alone Pariah Dark.”

Jazz tilted her head and her hair slipped over her shoulder like loose silk. Her expression was oddly blank. “You’re not thinking of fighting him, are you?”

Sam scoffed. “Obviously I am. Aren’t you?”

Jazz crossed her arms. “Of course not!” she said. She looked pointedly at the athame in Sam’s hand. “I’m guessing you’ve banished a couple spirits? This is _the_ _King of All Ghosts._ You have no idea what you’re talking about. Pariah Dark will kill you.”

Sam remembered damp earth and peeling paint. She remembered the coarse, stinging feeling of rope around her wrists and ankles, the biting cold of water dripping from a ruined ceiling, and the echoes of Pariah’s voice.

She bared her teeth and spoke in an animal snarl: “Who do you think you are? You don’t know anything about me. Don’t you fucking judge me.”

Jazz straightened out, something in her posture shining callous and sour through her manicured façade. “I know you weren’t around last time Pariah Dark was here. I know you don’t have any real weapons. I can deduce you have no real experience. So what if you can see ghosts?” she said. “I don’t want you to get hurt. You don’t stand a chance. None of us do.”

Sam ignored the urged to shrink back. Jazz was right, wasn’t she? She’d been useless last time, tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse with a sword in her chest, living out her all worst nightmares. No, Sam was _done_ being helpless. She sucked in a breath—

But Tucker shoved himself between the two of them. “Ladies! Priorities please? We need to find Danny. He’s in danger,” he said. “Everyone is.”

Jazz pushed her hair behind her ears and the anger dissipated from her figure. She sighed deeply. “I’m sorry. My brother’s gone. I’m worried,” she said. Her words were soft, lacking bravado.

Sam crossed her arms, tempted to ignore the olive branch she was offering, but Tucker was right. They had bigger things to worry about. And Sam knew all too well how quickly words could get out of hand.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t still pissed.

“Apology accepted,” she said, tone clipped but carefully neutral.

“Thank you,” Tucker said. He took a step back from them. She wondered if he’d thought they’d actually resort to violence.

Sam crossed her arms. “What all do we know?” she asked.

Tucker bit his lip, gaze shifting between her and his cellphone. “Uh, internet and cell signals are down, so we can’t text him,” he said. “And power’s out, so I can’t run my bud’s security camera neural network…”

Sam raised her brows. That sounded impressive and endlessly exploitable… she’d have to ask him about it later.

“And Danny knows that if there’s a big attack like this, he’s supposed to come straight home, but…” Jazz sighed. “He’s really afraid of ghosts. His nerves get the better of him and he runs off most of the time. If I had to guess, he’s holed up somewhere he thinks is safe.”

Sam wet her lips. Scared of ghosts? She smelled the distinct scent of horseshit.

He had no problem at the bagel shop. He’d even gone through the Ghost Portal! But then, he’d asked her to keep that a secret. Was he keeping the extent of his relationship with ghosts a secret, too?

Sam looked around the living room, taking note of the various weapons on the walls, tables, and shelves. She supposed it made sense. If he had ghost friends, he’d want to lie about it for their safety. It’s what she would do.

Sam wasn’t a snitch, so she’d keep that theory to herself. But she had to wonder what he was doing. And he had to be doing something willingly—she couldn’t stomach the alternatives.

Still, she had to make sure.

“There’s a warehouse on the edge of town. We need to check for him there,” Sam said.

Jazz cocked her head. “Why,” she stated simply.

“Because that’s where Pariah Dark held me captive.”


	10. Chapter 10

Danny didn’t dare to leave the sky of Amity Park until it was safely enshrouded by the ghost shield.

The people would be safe inside, at least for a few days. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they ran out of food. The city would be experiencing a full blackout too, save what few places had their own generator. The chill of the Ghost Zone would sink its claws into the city within a matter of hours. The weakest civilians might not make it through without electricity to fend off the cold. No one could leave the city for advanced medical treatment, either.

He needed to finish this quickly.

Danny shot off in the direction of Walker’s prison, careful to maintain a safe distance between himself and the sting of the ghost shield.

He heard the battle long before he saw it. Amity Park was eerily quiet, most of her citizens meandering in a confused haze through rainy streets, trying to get about their days. The wails and battle cries of the dead carried unimpeded through the city.

Danny wondered what it sounded like from the streets, under the safety of the ghost shield. The shield wasn’t equipped with spectral noise filtration to block the sound. Did normal people hear anything? He had been told once that the cries of the dead sounded like the forlorn howling of the wind to them. He wondered if it was true.

Danny heard it clearly: the resonating, metallic din of weapons crashing into shields, the war cries of ghosts entering the field, and the screams of the fallen.

He passed the city limits and saw Walker’s prison appearing on the horizon, so much as something _could_ appear on the horizon in the Ghost Zone, considering a great green swirl took the place of a skyline.

The prison yard appeared to be the current epicenter of the battle. Danny could see the banners of Mattingly on the frontlines, rising above soldiers baring their shields in a wall against Pariah’s skeleton army. Archers from the Courts of Diyu launched arrows from the prison walls. Pariah’s army sprung from the Keep’s door. The skeletons focused their efforts in the direction of the gate, but so far, it seemed they were contained.

Danny wasn’t going to count on it. He knew how quickly fortune could fade, and more than that he knew that Pariah’s armies would continue to claw their way out of the ground until their king was sealed again.

Danny narrowed his eyes, trying to find a familiar face amongst the storm of flaming arrows. He saw a flash of pale blue and darted toward it. He turned sideways, sliding between two archers before dropping into the prison yard.

Warriors clamored beneath him and above him. Two arrows slid through his body, intangible until they met with an enemy soldier just ahead of him. Green bone shattered and sharp, fragmented collarbone scraped across Danny’s cheek.

Danny gathered ectoplasm in his hand and thrust it into the skeleton’s ribcage. His hand flooded with cold. In a burst of green light, the skeleton collapsed into a pile of bones.

Danny felt wind by his ear and ducked back to the ground as a sword flew over his head, only to be blocked by one of Mattingly’s shield-maidens. The floor of bones rattled beneath his feet as once-defeated soldiers readied to rise again. Danny threw a punch upward into the chin of the skeleton that had tried to behead him and sent his jaw rocketing into the air. The shield maiden bashed its forehead and it crumpled, joining its brethren as a heap on the dirt.

She held her shield at the ready. Danny met her eyes—cold, hard determination leaked as blue ectoplasm from her sockets. He took the opening she gave him and jumped back into the sky.

The cover of arrows slowed for a moment. Danny heard a man scream an order from the wall, but couldn’t make it out. He scanned the skies above him until he saw the powder blue figure again, raining fire down upon her enemies. Another shout from the wall, and the volley resumed.

Danny turned intangible and flew straight up, then curved. He threw himself onto the back of the dragon. “Dora!” he shouted.

She raised her head and roared. Danny covered his ears against the shrill scream. For a moment, the rattling of bones stopped. Some half-formed skeletons buckled again under the sound. She beat her wings and loosed another scream as fire poured from her mouth.

A cold sigh fell from his lips. Danny rolled over and shot an ectoblast at an enterprising skeleton, covering his eyes to protect against the consequent shrapnel.

“Dora! What’s the situation?”

Dora turned her head toward him, lips curled back in a snarl. She growled and the rumble shook him to his core. She snapped her teeth at him—he threw his head back before her razor-sharp fangs caught his neck in their grasp. He felt soot spray across his face and humid, scorching air from her breath prickling his skin.

“Dorathea!” Danny’s voice echoed over the rumbles of battle, tones edging toward his ghostly wail so that he would be heard.

Dora growled again but threw her head back. She turned from him, snatching up three skeletons in her jaws before taking off for one of the guard towers.

Danny jumped off her back and hovered just above the tower. Dora tossed the skeletons toward the battlefield and folded her wings behind her. Smoke still trickled from her nose.

“Phantom,” she said. “You have my sincerest apologies.”

“Thanks but save it,” Danny said. “What’s the situation? Where’s Pariah?”

A staticky, off-pitch voice behind him answered. “It seems Pariah’s misplaced his courage and has settled on a battle by proxy.”

Danny’s head snapped back to look at the figure behind him. Black hair curling into horns, pale blue skin, indistinct features, and white clothes that might have been fashionable in the 60s.

Red-hot anger flooded Danny’s head. His vision narrowed until he could only barely make out Plasmius’s silhouette. He launched himself forward and readied a punch—but he met with Dora’s leathery wing instead.

Danny growled. “What are you doing?”

“Negotiating,” Dora said. “What do you want, Plasmius?” She held her mouth open to Plasmius in an obvious threat, forked tongue flicking in the air as flames licked at her teeth.

“To put it plainly, a truce,” the ghost said.

Danny bared his teeth. “Why the _hell_ would we ever trust you?” he said.

“Haven’t you heard the old adage ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’, Phantom?” Plasmius said. He folded his arms behind him. Danny flinched, readying an ectoblast—he wouldn’t fall for that again. Plasmius slowly put his hands out in front of him. “Ah, I seem to have hit a nerve.”

“Don’t think we are so foolish as not to see the connection between you and Pariah, Plasmius,” Dora said. She raised her wings halfway.

Plasmius didn’t look even slightly bothered by her posturing. He continued to hold his hands out diplomatically—in front where Danny could see them and palms facing himself as if not to shoot, but Danny bet Plasmius could fire an ectoblast from the backs of his hands.

“I would never think you foolish, Princess Dorathea.” Plasmius lifted his chin. “I won’t deny that I released Pariah. It’s been three years since the last fiasco, and I’ve had some time to think about my actions. I thought to right some of the damages I caused back then—namely, that I compromised the security of the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep by finding the Skeleton Key.

“Recently I’ve been experimenting with more advanced, modern containment systems. I thought after I successfully caught Phantom that I could do the same with Pariah, since you defeated him before...” Plasmius pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was wrong.”

Danny squinted at the other ghost, head cocked, waiting for any threat of attack. Plasmius didn’t move except to return his hands to their nonviolent positioning.

“Say I believe you—which I don’t, for the record,” Danny said. “Why would we accept your help?”

“Because I can help you contain Pariah.”

Dora snorted. “We have him trapped in his castle. As you said, it’s been three years. My kingdom has used that time to formulate allies and contingency plans should something like this happen again. We are well-equipped to trap Pariah once more.”

Plasmius’s lips twitched into a smug smile. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “Pariah isn’t in the Keep.”

Dora threw her head back and roared, blowing hot smoke at Plasmius. “Explain yourself!” she said.

“When I realized my mistake, I made an invisible duplicate of myself to monitor the situation. I watched Pariah Dark summon a portal and leave the Keep. This is all an elaborate ruse as he gathers real power elsewhere,” Plasmius said.

“Bullshit,” Danny said, but he wasn’t sure he believed it. He hadn’t seen Pariah in person yet. Was he really in the Keep like he’d assumed?

Plasmius rolled his eyes. “You don’t believe me. Fine. Believe this: Pariah Dark has been reigning as king for six thousand years. Do you think he’s held onto power that long by repeating failed tactics? He’s luring you into complacency while he formulates a new strategy.”

Dora huffed more smoke at him and howled, “Wicked, self-serving man! If you know where he is, end your theatrics and say so at once!”

Plasmius smiled with narrowed red eyes. “Ah, there’s just _one_ little thing we need to take care of before I say anything else.”

“Name your price, worm,” Dora said. Her eyes were wild, her pupils black cuts across glowing red irises.

Plasmius rolled his eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?” He crossed his arms and waited a few moments. Nobody spoke. He sighed. “I want you to swear an oath that I have your support in the coming war of succession.”


	11. Chapter 11

Tucker felt like a video game character. Maybe the Courier or the Doomedguy. It was hard not to, when he was trudging down Main Street in powered armor on his way to fight ghosts. He thought it would be cooler, that it would feel _better_ to be saving the day (or trying to, anyway), but he was terrified.

Part of that fear was rational—he was heading to a battlefield. Even though they were going to be dodging as much of the violence as they could, he could very well get hurt, or even die.

But much of the fear was supernatural, Jazz had told him. They were approaching the edge of the ghost shield and with it, the boundaries of Amity Park. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to _turn back._ Unlike Jazz and Sam, he didn’t have the Sight. He couldn’t see through the illusion that there were cornfields beyond the edge of town for the strange reality that they were in another realm. If he tried to press onward, he’d probably pass out.

Tucker heard the _bzzt_ of Jazz’s communicator. He glanced over to her—she wore the same armor, but her helmet didn’t read ‘FENTON PEELER’ on the front like his did. Instead, her helmet had been spray-painted teal all over. We’re getting close to the end of the ghost shield,” she said. Her voice was cracked and staticky over the coms system. “About fifty more feet. Put on the Fenton Specter-cles now, Tucker.”

“Roger,” Tucker responded. He took out a white eyeglasses case from a compartment in the forearm of the Fenton Peeler, gaudily emblazoned with the Fenton Works logo. He opened the case with a click and took out the Specter-cles. They were large glasses with a thick white frame banded with lime green. He found a switch on the side and turned it on, then swapped out his own glasses for the Specter-cles. They were slightly too wide for his face. The lenses turned dark. Green text appeared on the glass: CALIBRATING.

“It’s going to measure for your prescription now. If you can’t see clearly, just tap the side of the frame and it’ll add another step of correction,” Jazz said.

Tucker nodded. The glass cleared up a moment later, but he couldn’t see clearly. He gave the frame a flick. His vision cleared slightly, but not enough. He tapped it again, and again, until his vision through the glass was indistinguishable from his own glasses.

“This is awesome. Why don’t your parents make more of these things?” Tucker asked.

“Too expensive to manufacture on a large scale. They’re handy for home equipment, though,” Jazz said.

The glass darkened again, and more text appeared: INITIALIZING.

“It says it’s initializing,” Tucker said.

“Then it’ll just be a second while it polarizes illusionary interference,” Jazz said.

“Brace yourself. You’re in for a wild view,” Sam said. She gave him an apologetic look, one of the kinder expressions he’d seen on her face.

The glass cleared again. Tucker swallowed hard.

“How are they working?” Jazz asked. “We’ve never actually tested them fully, since everyone in our family can see ghosts anyway.”

“Yeah. I can it all,” he said.

Gone was the churning storm and familiar cornfields he’d seen before. He didn’t know what to focus on now—the swirling green and purple chasm in the sky, the swarms of ghosts, the green light cast over the city, a flash of something red, doors drifting in and out of the clouds over Amity Park… The view was almost too much. Tucker felt lightheaded.

“Sorry, I know this is a lot, but we don’t really have time for you to sit and gawp. Put in the Fenton Phones,” Jazz instructed.

Tucker wet his lips, but she was right, so he did as he was told. Instantly, he could hear it all, too—the battle cries, weapons clashing and firing, everything.

Stranger, though, was how his anxiety about going forward melted away. It didn’t go away completely, but it shaped into something manageable—something natural, not supernatural. He still didn’t want to go forward, not really, but he didn’t feel an instinctual urge to run anymore, either.

“You coping alright?” Jazz asked.

“I’m—fine,” Tucker wheezed.

“Good. Helmets on,” she said.

Tucker pulled his helmet on over his head. It clicked, and he watched the glass fog, then clear as cool, filtered air filled the chamber. He turned to Sam. She put her helmet on after his clicked into place.

“Ready your weapons,” Jazz said. She raised something that looked like a cross between a staff and a cattle prod. Sam drew two ecto-pistols. Tucker held the gun built into the Fenton Peeler. “I’ll lead. Sam, watch our backs. Tucker, just stick between us.”

“Got it,” Sam said.

Tucker didn’t say anything. He knew neither trusted him as anything more than an extra trigger finger or, at worst, a liability, but it still stung a little. Even if they were probably right.

Fully geared, they continued their march down Main Street. It was abandoned—Tucker guessed no one else had had any reason strong enough to fight against the supernatural fear to make it this far. Tucker was surprised he’d managed to push through the fog as far as he had without Fenton technology intervening.

Why did he feel so strongly that he needed to look for Danny? He barely knew him. He’d done what Danny had asked—wasn’t that enough? He wasn’t a soldier, but he was geared like one for a battle he barely understood. Still, the thought that Danny could die and no one would know but Tucker would know what he’d done for them kept him marching forward.

Soon, they came up to a transparent green wall that hummed at a high pitch right at the edge of what he could hear. “This is the end of the shield,” Jazz said. She readied her staff and passed through the barrier.

Tucker sucked in a breath and followed behind her. Passing through the barrier, he felt a tingle up and down his spine and a static shock across his skin. The city beyond the barrier looked the same as inside the barrier, but like a green filter had been removed from his vision. In a way, he supposed one had. Still, the misty green and purple sky made the colors of all the streets and buildings _wrong, wrong, wrong._

Jazz slowed a little, until she was walking at Tucker’s side. “So, did Danny say anything to you about going anywhere?” she asked.

Tucker’s brows furrowed. He replayed their last conversation in his head. “No,” he said after a few moments of careful consideration. “He didn’t.”

Jazz looked at him, her expression clearly disappointed and crossed with something else he couldn’t decipher. She slowed down again until she was walking beside Sam. “You said you were held captive by Pariah Dark,” Jazz said.

“Yep,” Sam said, popping the ‘p’.

“Can I ask you some questions?” Jazz asked.

“Sure. Grill me about one of the worst experiences of my life,” she said, her tone pitched with false cheer.

Jazz threw her hands forward in an offering of peace. “Sorry, I don’t mean to tread on any nerves. I just want to understand what we might be getting into,” she said.

Tucker turned to look at Sam, who shot him and Jazz a glower. She chewed on her lip, but the hard set of her brows softened. “Fine. What do you want to know?” Sam asked.

“Why did he capture you?” Jazz asked.

“Because I have the Sight,” Sam answered. A greater reason hung in the air after her words, but she didn’t elaborate.

Jazz nodded, then continued with her next question: “Is there anything special about this warehouse?”

“It’s an abandoned piece of shit outside the shield and the fear boundaries. Fright Knight chose it,” Sam said. “He knew no humans would be in the area, and ghosts would sense his presence there and steer clear. There wasn’t any chance of someone finding me.” Sam’s face was stoic and her face blank, but her steps grew heavier as she spoke.

Tucker couldn’t imagine how terrifying it would be to be held captive by ghosts. Even just seeing one had him quaking in his boots. Being at the mercy of one? Tucker shivered.

Something red flashed in the corner of Tucker’s vision. He stopped walking suddenly, and Sam walked into him.

“Watch it!” she shouted, giving him an irritated push.

“I saw something,” he said.

“No shit. What’d you see, one of the hundreds of ghosts running from the battle? One of the floating islands? Some stray ectoplasm?” Sam said.

Tucker rolled his eyes, getting fed up with her hostility. He opened his mouth to tell her off, but he saw the red flash again. “There it was!” he said instead. “Did you see it?”

Sam raised her pistols in answer. Jazz powered on her staff. Tucker wrung the Peeler in his hands, repeating to himself Jazz’s instructions on how to use it.

Red appeared in his vision again, but instead of disappearing, it began to approach them. Soon, he could make out that it was a figure dressed in red on some kind of hoverboard. His first thought was that it was _awesome._ His next thought was that he was in the supernatural realm of the dead and this might very well be a ghost coming to kill him, and terror struck his heart again.

The figure in red stopped ten feet ahead of them, hovering five feet in the air. They weren’t a ghost—their movements were too fluid, too alive. He reasoned they had to be a ghost hunter.

“What the hell are you doing out here, Fentons? I don’t know if you noticed, but the battle’s _that way,”_ a feminine voice said with the same kind of raw, untamed rage that Sam had displayed. _Are all ghost hunters like this?_ Tucker wondered.

“Red Huntress,” Jazz said by way of greeting. “You’re not at the battle, either.”

“I just finished gathering up stray civilians and getting them back into the shield. Answer my question—what are you doing out here? This isn’t the time to be wasting resources,” she said.

“Wait, I know your voice,” Sam said. “Valerie Gray?”

The Red Huntress, or maybe Valerie, pulled her helmet off. She was a black woman no older than Tucker and Sam, and she had dark eyes and an irritated scowl. Her hair was done in cornrows gathered into a high ponytail. She looked like she had been wearing lipstick and mascara sometime not too long ago, but it had faded. No doubt from ghost fights, if the huge cannon she was holding was anything to guess by.

“You’re not a Fenton. Who the hell are you?” she asked.

Sam pulled off her helmet.

Valerie’s scowl deepened. “Oh, great. Manic Manson. Always a displeasure,” she said.

Sam’s expression quickly darkened to match Valerie’s sneer. “Oh, that’s rich, considering you’re _apparently_ a ghost hunter now,” Sam said. Tucker could see clearly that she was winding up for some kind of fight, and Valerie was falling for the bait hook, line, and sinker.

Tucker had had enough.

“Are any of you capable of keeping your shit in line for like ten minutes?” he shouted. “Last I checked, the city’s still _literally_ in Hell and Danny’s missing, so shut it!”

Valerie and Sam backed off, but he could tell they weren’t finished with each other. He didn’t care. They could kill each other later, provided he was long out of earshot.

Jazz cleared her throat. “He’s right. We’re all stressed, scared, and angry, but we need to keep it together.” Valerie looked like she had something to say about Jazz’s assessment, but wisely kept quiet. “Valerie, Danny’s missing. Have you seen him?”

“No. He’s probably hiding from the ghosts under a bed somewhere,” Valerie said. Her words were harsh, but her tone was softer than it was before. “I’m sure he’s safe, but if you’re that worried, I can help you look for him. Last I saw, Phantom and that dragon ghost had the battle contained. I can spare a little time.”

Tucker grit his teeth. Phantom was Danny. _Phantom was Danny!_ How did none of them see it? But of course they didn’t see it, it didn’t make any sense. They sounded nothing alike and shared no similar features but height since Phantom’s face was… _there,_ but it was like Tucker couldn’t get it to stick in his brain. It was an effect that Danny put on purposefully, because he’d dropped it as soon as he dropped his act. So of course they didn’t see that Danny and Phantom were the same—he’d obviously been carefully hiding his actions behind skillful disguises and a cowardly persona. Tucker only knew because he’d been there to see the charade slip.

It was insane. It was _absolutely insane._ Did Danny realize what he was doing to his loved ones? Did they worry this much every time he went to fight ghosts? No, he had to be stealthier than that, or the gig would’ve been up long before Tucker got involved. He had to conclude that it was unusual for them to worry this much.

But though it might’ve been unusual, here they were. Danny’s family was desperately searching for him, trying to convince themselves he was safe, when he was actively throwing himself in harm’s way to protect them. It was almost cruel, what he was doing to them.

And by some misfortune, Tucker was the only one that knew the truth.

Tucker just watched, dazed, while Jazz and Valerie exchanged information. He tried to riddle out this moral dilemma. His mother had told him that sometimes, you had to be cruel to be kind. He’d never believed it before. Was it really kind to let them believe a falsehood if it was easier to stomach than the truth?

A gentle shove from Sam wrenched Tucker from his crisis. “Quit spacing out,” she said. “We decided we’re still heading to the warehouse to look for Danny, but now Valerie’s coming. Are you alright?”

There it was—an opening to tell them they were wasting their precious resources looking for Danny when they already knew exactly where he was.

But Tucker realized that he was cruel too, because all he said was: “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this chapter really kicked my ass. I really wanted this to be from Tucker's pov but I had a hard time making him more central to the drama, so hello internal struggles!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW on this chapter for bullying (in particular, characters belittle serious mental illness). Also from this point forward expect varying degrees of violence and blood, I won't be tagging each individual chapter for that for spoiler reasons. Take care my friends <3

Sam bit down hard to keep from snarling at Valerie, or Jazz, or Tucker, or anyone else who so much as looked at her the wrong way. She was in one of her legendary Sour Moods, and she knew it, but she wasn’t willing to do anything about it. So far as she was concerned, they all deserved it. Jazz was a know-it-all busybody with a stick up her ass, a try-hard with no real idea of what Sam had been through to get to where she was now, armed and ready to storm the keep. Tucker looked like he could barely lift a paperclip, and without the sight he had no right to get involved. And Valerie…

Sam’s expression churned between a grimace and a smile, finally settling on a grotesque smirk with a wild look in her eyes.

Valerie!

Sam couldn’t believe her. Everyone thought Sam was mean-spirited, hard-edged, and cruel. They thought she carelessly flung sharp words and harsh criticisms, and she knew they were right, she really did. But at least she was honest. She wasn’t a two-faced, holier-than-thou _bitch_ clinging to infantile prejudices she obviously knew had been wrong.

Sam didn’t care what other people thought. But that was a hard-won strength, a stolen victory pried with nails chewed down to the nub from the grasps of those that would see her fail. She had battle scars to prove it, and some wounds never fully healed.

Some wounds like ‘Manic Manson’.

She felt like a teenager again, winding through narrowing halls and compressing under the weight of the stares of a dozen uniformed girls. And the worst of them…

_Painted lips parted into a smile masking bared teeth. “Everyone look, it’s Manic Manson crawling out of her crypt! Seen any ghosts lately, chica?” a Hispanic teen called. She jogged over to Sam’s side and shoved her shoulder into her, laughing when the other girl’s books toppled over. “Lo siento, let me help you pick those up.”_

_“Leave it Paulina,” Sam growled. She dropped to her knees to gather up her fallen books as quickly as she could, but the other girl was faster. She snatched up a worn journal bound in soft red leather._

_“Omg, is this a diary?” she said through a laugh. Sam reached out to take it from her, but Paulina skipped back, giggling. “Val, catch!”_

_Valerie grinned. Paulina threw the book across the crowd to her while the other girls snickered, and Valerie caught it gladly. She flipped it open to the middle and read: “—at this point the only person I have to talk to is Ghost Writer and this stupid journal he gave me—”_

_“Stop it!” Sam shouted. She tried to push her way through the crowd, but the other girls pushed her back._

_Valerie continued reading from another page. “—met a ghost obsessed with boxes last night. He tried to steal my box purse from me. I think I saw him in the warehouse once when I was kidnapped—”_

_Paulina interrupted Valerie’s reading with a howl. “What else does it say, Val? Does she help the box ghost move on, maybe with a magical piece of cardboard? Oh, I have questions for mi abuelita, God rest her soul! Maybe she could talk to her for me!” she said._

_Sam felt like she was shrinking, or maybe the other girls were growing taller, but she’d just fallen back onto her knees. “Stop it! It’s mine, give it back!” Sam yelled._

_“Dr. Erlich prescribed me medication for paranoid schizophrenia when rehab couldn’t find anything wrong with me but I know,_ I know _what I saw—” Valerie held the book in her hands, but didn’t continue reading. The smile had fallen from her face._

_“What are you doing in private school, chica? Go back to whatever insane asylum you escaped from!” Paulina screeched. Her flock of followers cackled alongside her._

_Valerie threw the book down at the floor in front of Sam instead, then made a show of wiping her hands off on her knees and shaking them wildly in the air. “No way am I reading more of that. What if Manic Manson’s crazy is contagious? I’m getting away from her!”_

_The other girls laughed harder at this than they had even at the journal, and chased Valerie down the hallway, trying to tag her with papers stolen from Sam’s dropped books._

Sam shook her head at the memory and bit back the vitriol threatening to foam out of her mouth.

Here Valerie was, wearing ghostly armor and well aware of the truth of Sam’s story of the Ghost King, still calling her Manic Manson.

Sam calculated that this was precisely the point to bring to blow against Valerie to start a fight. “Oh, that’s rich, considering you’re apparently a ghost hunter now,” she spat. Valerie winced. Sam thought her successful attack would make her feel marginally better, but instead, it just made her want to tear out the other girl’s throat even more.

As Sam predicted, Valerie must have felt the same, because she was quickly descending on her hover board. Sam holstered her pistols and readied a punch, but Tucker threw himself between the two women.

“Are any of you capable of keeping your shit together for like ten minutes?” he shouted. “Last I checked, the city’s still literally in Hell and Danny’s missing, so shut it!”

Sam grit her teeth. With extreme reluctance, she accepted that Tucker was right—she needed to keep things in perspective and not get carried away. She needed to kick Pariah’s ass before she tore a chunk out of Valerie.

But she’d definitely get to Valerie.

Jazz and the Red Huntress compared notes quickly and professionally, and unlike when Sam had first spoken to Jazz, the two didn’t start arguing. She thought they looked about ready to, though, between Jazz’s condescending remarks and Valerie’s curt responses, but Valerie seemed to have reached the same conclusion as Sam and was reserving her aggression for the Ghost King. Jazz, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the tension.

“The battle’s currently centered in the prison yard, but Pariah’s skeletons are barely contained. More skeletons keep coming. I’d guess we have thirty minutes tops before their numbers grow too large and they push out Mattingly and Diyu’s armies and allies,” Valerie said. “You said you think Danny might be locked up in a warehouse out here somewhere?”

“That’s right. The same warehouse where Pariah kept me last time,” Sam said, and imagined herself physically grinding the words into Valerie’s cheek with the heel of her shoe.

But the Red Huntress had already identified a target to stalk, and she ignored the taunt for the business at hand. “How’d you escape?” Valerie asked.

“What’s it matter to you?” Sam asked. “I got out.”

Jazz put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam shrugged her off and glared at her, and Jazz put her hands up placatingly. “Depending on how you got out, it might affect if Pariah chooses to use that location again,” Jazz said.

Sam blew her bangs away from her narrowed eyes. “Fine. Fright Knight had me in his nightmare realm, but he needed his sword back. I pretended to be unconscious after he pulled it out, and I slipped away when he left.”

Sam left out how she had to break her left thumb in two places to get enough slack in the ropes to free her hands, or how the ropes had worn holes into her skin from the friction.

Valerie and Jazz discussed a route to take to the warehouse, and Sam’s gaze finally fell on Tucker, who was pale-faced and staring at Valerie.

“Quit spacing out,” Sam said, knocking her elbow into his shoulder gently. “We decided we’re still heading to the warehouse to look for Danny, but now Valerie’s coming. Are you alright?”

She didn’t know why she asked him if he was alright. Maybe because he looked like he was about to hurl. Maybe it was because he hadn’t done anything to her yet to earn her spite other than obviously being useless in battle.

“I’m fine. Let’s go,” he said simply. She doubted he was fine, but shrugged it off. He was probably feeling woozy from the sight of ghosts, she reasoned.

Jazz motioned for them to follow, and they resumed their march down Main Street, eventually veering off onto Howard Street to make for the Warehouse District. Valerie hovered overhead, gun cocked and ready to shoot at any hostile entities that made the mistake of getting in her line of sight. Occasionally, Sam saw the faint glow of a ghost hiding in an alley or an empty storefront, but dismissed these sightings as harmless. Any ghost interested in a fight would be at the prison.

After a mile’s walk, they came up on the warehouse.

“This is it,” Sam announced. The group paused in front of it, taking in its appearance and looking for any sign of paranormal activity.

The warehouse was in even worse shape than the last time she’d seen it. The russet brick walls were completely overtaken with ivy. Most of the square-paned windows were shattered, the rest milky white and hazy with dust and age. The roof and half of the upper section of the building had collapsed in on itself. Sam wondered why it hadn’t been completely torn down yet, and wasn’t surprised to see an orange signed marked ‘CONDEMNED’ on what remained of the entry doors.

Jazz was the first to go in. “Danny?” she cried, pushing open the double doors. “Danny, are you in here?”

Valerie leaned forward on her board to shoot after Jazz. “Shut up! Surprise is one of our assets, don’t just throw it away.”

Tucker shook his head and followed after the Red Huntress.

Sam stood frozen in her boots.

The warehouse was different, but not fundamentally so. It was still the same hellish wreck she’d been locked inside for the better part of twenty-four hours. Not that it had seemed so short a time from her perspective.

She remembered the sharp pain of Fright Knight’s sword Soul Shredder.

_It cut her without drawing blood, slipping intangibly through her ribs directly into her heart. The blade burned steadily, the flames licking at her cheeks but leaving no mark._

_A harsh wind blew, and the sword was gone._

_Sam was in free fall, and then—_ thud _. She landed flat on her back, all the air pushed out of her chest in a heavy wheeze. She gasped, desperate to fill her lungs._

_She lay there breathing until her chest stopped aching. Then she carefully moved her arms under her and pushed up into a sitting position. Another deep breath to fend off vertigo, and she looked around her._

_Nothing._

_There was nothing around her. Not nothing in that it was empty, it was_ nothing. _There wasn’t a floor. There wasn’t a ceiling. There wasn’t a warehouse, or a horizon, or an endless expanse of light or shadow. It was truly nothing._

_Sam lifted her hand up and looked at the soft blue lines tracing under pale skin. She was still there, the only thing that still existed._

_She shook her head, stood up, and started walking._

Sam stepped around a pile of concrete and rebar rubble and made her way to the center of the room. She found a spot next to a sturdy column. There was a rusting metal chair beside it and a mess of frayed and rotting rope. It was the very same she’d been tied with, left to collect dust when neither she nor Pariah Dark came back for it after the battle.

Looking straight up, she could see doors and swirling fractals in green and purple instead of rotting wood rafters and broken skylights.

At least before she’d felt the hot sting of Soul Shredder she’d had something to look at.

_No matter how far she walked, or floated, or jumped, there was nothing. Wherever she put her foot, she could step to. She could just as easily slip through. She must have walked or fell for what would be miles, but there was no change in the nonexistence surrounding her._

_Sam screamed. The shrill sound died at her lips without anything to carry it. She didn’t know how she was still breathing (was she breathing?), or how she was alive at all in such a vacuum. Yet she’d survived here for milliseconds, minutes, hours, days—she wasn’t sure. It was an eternity packed into an instant._

_It came to her then. Sam stopped walking and looked above her. There was nothing, not even time. She hadn’t had time to die._

_She screamed again._

_She didn’t stop screaming._

Sam kicked over the empty chair and crushed the seat under a heavy boot of the Fenton Peeler.

“Danny’s not here,” Jazz said, reaching the same conclusion Sam had already come to.

Sam gave the chair one last kick for good measure before joining the others at a spot nearer to the door, beside one of the larger piles of broken roof.

“That was a huge waste of time,” Valerie said, crossing her arms. The metal of her suit clinked against itself with the motion.

“No, it wasn’t,” Jazz hissed. “Looking for my brother is not and will _never_ be a waste of time.”

Valerie muttered something under her breath. Sam saw Tucker rolling his eyes, clearly still fed-up with all the hostility in their group. Then he gave his head a little shake, and turned to Sam with a soft but questioning look.

“What did Pariah really want with you?” Tucker asked, blunt despite his gentle demeanor. “I mean, no offense, but what makes you so special, besides the Sight? Were you just in the wrong place at the wrong time or what?”

Sam shifted her weight as uncomfortable memories came to mind. She shivered. Goosebumps prickled at her skin. “…no, he sought me out. All of you are created psychics, or using an unnatural form of the Sight. Valerie has her visor, you have your glasses Tucker, and Jazz has just been exposed to too much ectoplasm. But I’m a born psychic. He wanted to use me.”

Sam felt cold. After a pause, Jazz spoke up. “What did he want to use you for?” she prodded lightly.

 **“I require a mouthpiece,”** a masculine voice boomed above them in the shifting tones and clustered consonants of Necrotic that Sam only understood in a deep, emotional part of her subconscious.

Sam’s heart skipped a beat and she felt her shock as a physical jolt carried through her veins.

She didn’t dare to look up, but she didn’t need to. She’d never forget that voice and the way it tickled at the dark corners of her mind and echoed in her ears. It was Pariah Dark.

In the blink of an eye he stood five feet before her, a grim smile on his face.

 **“Samantha Manson,”** he said.

Sam drew her pistols and emptied the cartridges of both into Pariah’s face, masking him in a thick curtain of green-black smoke. She wouldn’t have time to reload the pistols, but that was fine—she still had the Fenton Peeler’s gun, and while it had to charge between rounds, it created a stronger blast.

He was unfazed—he’d caught her shots in his right hand, and while his gauntlet had cracked with the impact, it hadn’t broken. He waved his hand through the smoke, then gathered it into his palm in a rippling sphere.

 **“Fright Knight spoke the truth. We have not killed your spirit… yet,”** Pariah said.

“Oh no you don’t!” Valerie said. She circled around the King of Ghosts on her hoverboard and readied a missile. At the same time, Jazz charged her staff and Tucker lifted his gun.

Another wave of Pariah’s hand, and the smoke flew out to surround Sam and himself in verdant, inky blackness. Sam could see it ripple as the ghost hunters attempted to break through, but the King of Ghosts held his shield strong.

With Pariah temporarily distracted, Sam honed her effort into bringing the Ghost King into focus in the Sight. With careful concentration, he stopped flickering in her vision, his visage becoming more solid and his movements more fluid under her gaze. Unlike other ghosts, however, she couldn’t see him perfectly—he was too strong, and his will to remain shrouded violently pushed against her will to See.

 **“Come, Samantha Manson,”** he said, and she felt the words vibrate against her own teeth.

“No,” she said. Quickly, she raised the built-in gun of the Fenton Peeler and shot him again.

Ectoplasm dripped from his left temple and he made a quiet grunt of pain. She held the trigger firm, waiting for the gun to recharge for her next shot.

He grimaced at her, then took a step forward. The smoke closed in around them as the space between them lessened.

 **“You. Will. Come,”** he spoke.

“No! No, I won’t, and you can’t make me! Not this time!” Sam shouted. Another pull of the trigger, and she shot him again. It went clear through his cheek this time, leaving a round hole in the skin that gushed green. Sam drew her athame to defend herself until the gun recharged, but stayed still. She knew she stood no chance if she rushed him. _Patience,_ she told herself. Sweat dripped down her brow.

But Pariah Dark saw the opening in her defense and flew forward, taking up her hands in his. Black metal cuffs appeared around her wrists, so tight they bit into the skin. **“Do not presume to tell me what to do, spirited child!”** he yelled. **“I am your King, and you will bow!”**

“No!” Sam yelled. She gripped the blade hard and swung upward, catching him in the chin.

But the ghost just laughed. He grabbed the chain between her cuffs and held it tight so that her palms were pressed together. She struggled, but he was stronger than she was. She couldn’t win with brute force. She turned her blade to his damaged gauntlet and pushed. It split the weakened metal and squelched through his hand. With as much strength and speed as she could muster, she turned the blade.

Pariah Dark roared, and smoke and embers flew out of his mouth like a belching furnace as neon green flooded from his ruined hand. **“I AM YOUR KING, SPIRITED CHILD, AND YOU _WILL_ BOW!”** He pulled his hand away, her blade still stuck in his gauntlet. He pulled it out and snapped it in half before throwing it at the ground.

“I refuse!” Sam shouted.

Pariah Dark snarled. He raised his hand. Black chains snaked around Sam’s arms, then her chest and her legs. She ignored them for the moment—another shot was charged. Pariah was reaching for his sword with his left hand, a practiced but unnatural movement for the ghost. Sam lined up the sight with his wrist and pulled the trigger.

The strength of the Fenton Peeler’s gun’s blast tore straight through his gauntlet, leaving him with another ruined hand.

Pure rage as red-hot ectoplasm dripped from Pariah Dark’s eye and out from under his eye patch. He made no sound as he grabbed for her chains. With speed she’d never witnessed before, he yanked the chain up into the air and dragged her along with it, then whipped the chain back and smashed her into the ground.

Sam heard a crack as her armor cushioned her fall. She felt the metal of her helmet against her left ear as an intense wave of vertigo overtook her. She felt like she was swimming. She tried to fight against the current, but Pariah yanked the chain toward him, pulling her across the floor, and the movement was too much. Black was flooding her vision. She was drowning. Soon, there was nothing left but the dark. She couldn’t remember how to fight the tide taking her anymore.

With a soft exhale, her last grunt of effort against her fate, Sam fell unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sam.


	13. Chapter 13

Danny wilted. “War of succession?” he repeated after Plasmius. The thought had never occurred to him, but a hundred ramifications ricocheted through his mind all at once.

He almost wished he was just enough of a coward to convince himself to sink into the guard tower under his feet and sleep through this entire conflict, or that the responsibility of getting Amity Park out of the Land of the Dead rested on someone else’s shoulders. Maybe, if he was lucky, a stray arrow from the battle below would hit him in the eye and he’d suffer a death he didn’t wake from.

No arrow struck him, and Plasmius didn’t shut up. “Yes, you stupid boy. Did you learn nothing when you fought with Pariah Dark?” he scolded, his eyes narrowing. “Perhaps the next time I catch you in my thermos I’ll provide you a lecture, but in the meantime, _hush._ The adults are talking.”

Danny growled at the slew of insults levied at him. “I’ll give you that the last time you caught me was definitely not my finest moment, but have you forgotten how many times I’ve caught you? Oh, and let’s not forget that I’m the one that beat Pariah to a pulp last time, not you. And you say you tried to fight him now and lost a second time. So who’s the real loser here?” Danny responded.

Dora huffed at him, clearly displeased with his inability to maintain his composure during such an important negotiation, but he shrugged it off. He was more than a little sore and embarrassed by his most recent defeat, especially that Plasmius had seen him fly face-first into a (completely invisible!) ghost shield, and he’d gotten less than two hours of sleep last night with none the night before. And that was before he’d heard there would be a war!

There was only so much Danny could take in a day without cracking under the pressure. Truth be told, he was pretty sure he’d already cracked by the time he’d flung himself at Plasmius the night before. Danny wished he could take five minutes to screw his head on straight, but even that was a luxury lost to him.

Dora folded her wings behind her and curled her tail around her hind legs in an almost ladylike fashion. “With Pariah Dark free again, his subsequent defeat will be his third. He was first defeated by the Ancients, and then by you, Phantom,” Dora said to Danny, pointedly ignoring Plasmius’s impatient stare. “Should we defeat him again, the Crown will reject him and await a successor. Historically, various factions of the Infinite Realms choose a Royal Aspirant to support, and these factions and Aspirants go to war to determine the next monarch. Do you understand?”

Danny nodded. He felt a lump in his throat. “And the Aspirants—how are they chosen?” he asked.

“Birthright, strength, fealty, and…” Dora paused, a shadow falling over her reptilian features. “By right of conquest.”

Danny’s mouth went dry. Finally, the thought ricocheting in his brain found its mark.

 _Maybe it’s only by conquest of lands in the Infinite Realms?_ He hoped so, but he knew Dora better than to believe it. The look she’d had on her face—it was pity. They both knew that his victory over Pariah gave him a claim, and she knew him well enough to know that he’d find no pleasure in it. He wasn’t stupid enough to pursue or even _want_ the throne, but he had no doubt having a claim to it would bring him nothing but trouble.

Dora, in her infinite tact and grace, turned the conversation back to negotiations, providing Danny with the distraction he so desperately needed.

“Now that we are all on the same page, let us return to the matter at hand,” Dora said. “It is no small thing you ask of me, Plasmius. My people expect me to pursue my claim to the throne. To swear such an oath is a betrayal to my kingdom.”

“And while I appreciate how difficult this will be for you and your kingdom, I must emphasize that if you want my cooperation, you don’t have a choice,” Plasmius said, grinning widely.

But Dora just smiled back, and her fangs glinted under the shifting lights of the blue and green fires of the battle below. “You are correct. Regardless, I expect you to swear an oath in return, on pain of punishment.”

Danny couldn’t help but laugh as Plasmius blanched. He’d seen a young yeti of the Far Frozen agree to such an oath once, not fully understanding what it was she was agreeing to. It had taken Danny and the entirety of the Far Frozen two weeks of continuous work to see her end of the bargain to completion and prevent her soul being consumed. Swearing such an oath was nothing to be taken lightly.

“Are you surprised that I recognize my own power in this situation? You are hated, Plasmius. None of the kingdoms will support your claim. You need me to sway them, just as I need you to tell me where Pariah hides. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need me as much as I need you,” Dora stated.

Plasmius scowled, then flicked his cape behind him in a display of irritation. “Fine. What would you have me swear?” he asked.

The dragon cocked her head slightly, considering. When she spoke, it was with great caution and careful enunciation. “In addition to a binding oath to bring me and my allies to Pariah Dark, I would have you swear to use your power as an Aspirant or King only for the best interest of the denizens of the Realm of the Dead. I am certain that you will find no objection with this clause, considering you yourself said you are trying to right some of the damages you caused,” Dora said.

Plasmius hunched over slightly and crossed his arms. “…I accept,” he said, after a moment’s silence.

“Then the deal is struck,” Dora said. She raised her chin and roared, spraying fire as she tossed her head back and forth. Then she began to shrink until an elegantly clad young woman took the place of a fearsome dragon. With perfect poise, she held out her hand. Plasmius watched for a moment, then rolled his eyes. He knelt and kissed her ring.

After he stood, Dora held her hand over her breast. Danny could feel her core pulsing, a dry heat overtaking the frigid atmosphere of the Ghost Zone. She spoke again: “Phantom, bear witness to my oath. By my True Name in Death, _Ḷ Eagh Goub,_ I swear on pain of punishment by the Elder Sister of the Gate between Worlds to abide by your terms as you previously described.”

Danny winced in sympathy upon hearing Dora’s true name. A ghost’s true name was a private thing, something only used in old, ceremonial magic. To speak it outside of such a ritual was one of the greatest offenses in the Realm of the Dead—as such, he’d never had occasion to hear hers before. The cause for such privacy was that each sound in a true name held meaning that other ghosts understood intrinsically, just as all the dead understood Necrotic. That meaning always spoke of how the ghost died.

Dora’s true name roughly translated to English as _My Kin Struck Me and I Fell for the Pursuit of Power._ He’d never known before that her family had murdered her. He wondered briefly if it was Aragon that had done it, or perhaps her mother, the night before a ball.

Plasmius straightened up and brushed soot from his shoulders, his demeanor unaffected by Dora’s statement of her name. It was the polite response. Danny straightened his own posture—he owed Dora this basic respect.

Plasmius put a gloved hand to his chest. As his core pulsed, the heat intensified, becoming almost unbearable to Danny. “Phantom, bear witness to my oath. By my True Name in Death, _Touhq Ghoị̣̱_ _Ụṛ Emezh,_ I swear on pain of punishment by the Elder Sister of the Gate between Worlds to abide by your terms as you previously described,” he said.

Danny’s eyes widened as the meaning of Plasmius’s name settled in his chest. That couldn’t be possible—he must have misheard him. Could he have misheard him? No, he felt the meaning of the name in his bones. There could be no mistake.

 _Ạsho’E_ _ụd Emezh_ was Danny’s true name. _Trapped and Alone, Deficient in Years but with Bountiful Pain, I was Struck by Lightning. I am Myself and I am the Realms._ Somehow, Plasmius shared his surname, _Emezh._ His name translated: _The Defect in Another’s Creation Struck Me with a Slow and Painful Pestilence. I am Myself and I am the Realms._

Few deaths were so significant as to earn a surname. Only one cause of death could earn a ghost _that_ surname.

 _“Emezh,”_ Dora repeated after Plasmius, baring her fangs. “You’re a half-breed.”

Plasmius clicked his teeth and let out a low, rumbling growl in warning. Danny felt Plasmius’s pain at her disrespect as his own. “Speak the name _Emezh_ again and I will eat your soul myself, _Ḷ Eagh Goub,”_ he threatened.

Dora hissed at him, but ultimately backed down.

During their exchange, Danny sweated profusely, mouth hanging slightly open. Plasmius was a half-ghost? Danny had always thought he was the only one. He’d heard of others coming before him, born of natural portals, but it was the sort of thing that only happened once a millennia—he never thought he’d meet another half-ghost during what was left of his life.

He remembered that sometimes, when he was younger, he daydreamed what it would be like to meet another. He thought that if another half-ghost existed, they could be close. Like twins, even. Who else but another half-ghost could understand what it was like to exist on the line between worlds?

All at once, Danny felt excitement, soul-crushing disappointment, and a deep, unnamable sadness at the revelation that there _was_ another half-ghost, and it was… _Plasmius_. His most hated enemy.

He couldn’t do this right now. He couldn’t think about a war, his apparent claim to the throne, and the existence of another half-ghost. He needed to be focused. He couldn’t afford to be distracted lest he make a mistake when they found Pariah Dark.

Danny turned around and wiped at his eyes under the guise of a stretch. He set aside his thoughts for later consideration. He focused his gaze on the warriors far beneath the tower, intent on a new distraction.

“We’ve wasted enough time,” Danny said instead of any of a hundred questions flitting through his head. “Where’s Pariah?”

“Well. I don’t know where he _is,_ per se—” Plasmius started, but was shortly interrupted by Dora shrieking. Danny spun around in time to see the princess gouging her claws into the other ghost’s throat.

“Deceitful, abhorrent insect! I will bring you to the Elder Sister myself!” Dora yelled, her eyes glowing violent crimson. Danny raised his hand and readied an ectoblast, waiting for Dora to turn so he could make a clear shot.

Plasmius grabbed Dora’s hands in his, digging his own claws into her skin. “If you’ll allow me to finish, I know where he’s going. Will you unhand me?” he said.

Dora growled again, but she let him go, hot pink ectoplasm dripping from her fingers. Danny narrowed his eyes. He left the energy gathered in his palm, ready to shoot.

Plasmius pulled a silk scarf out of a pocket under his tunic and dabbed at the wounds on his neck. “Three years ago, I had the opportunity to speak with Fright Knight. As it so happens, we were able to find some common ground,” he said.

Danny scoffed. “Of course you did,” he said.

“You would be amazed what a civil conversation can accomplish, Phantom,” Plasmius scolded. “Anyhow, Fright Knight has grown restless. He has no desire to see his King fall, but equally he cannot bear to see the Ghost Zone descend further into chaos without leadership. We came to an arrangement: I named a location, and Fright Knight agreed to bring his King there. We agreed that neither of us would bring our armies.”

“You mean we’re going to ambush him?” Danny said.

Plasmius snorted. “Hardly. Fright Knight is oathbound to his King—we’ll be expected,” he said. “But as I said before, I’ve created a new containment device for Pariah Dark. I told Fright Knight nothing of this device, though I expect him to know that we will come prepared.”

“Then this is a trap,” Dora said. “A bait too sweet for Pariah to ignore. All of his enemies gathered into one place without the full backing of our allies… but we will be at his mercy without our armies to back us. This is suicide, Plasmius.”

“The two of you are so lacking in vision,” Plasmius said. “Pariah is arrogant, a warrior who leads with his sword and not his head. In the heat of battle, he is nothing without Fright Knight there to help him strategize. So long as we separate the two of them, we will be able to blind him with rage and herd him like a sheep.”

“Is that all?” Danny said, tone laced with sarcasm.

“When is the agreed rendezvous time?” Dora asked, much more seriously.

Plasmius tugged back on his glove, revealing a red-faced watch on a burgundy leather wristband. “In approximately thirty minutes. Lucky us, we’re running early.”

“Early!?” Danny repeated. He ran his fingers through his hair, groaning. “You can’t be serious. We’re not prepared!”

“On the contrary, this is the only time we have. If we let him recover his strength, he’ll reign eternal. We have to strike him down while he’s still weak,” Plasmius said. He paused, then gave Danny a smug look. “Do I look like the kind of man to leave anything to chance, Phantom? All factors are accounted for. Pariah will come, and when he does, he’s as good as gone.”

Dora offered Danny a softer expression. “It was just the two of you that defeated Pariah Dark last time, was it not? Be at ease, Phantom, for you shall have my assistance, too,” she said.

Danny just scoffed. “Sure. But last time I had a crazy mech suit to kick his ass in,” he said. “I’ve gotten stronger, but not _that_ much.”

Dora stroked the jewel hanging from her neck. “Then perhaps it is time I let you borrow my amulet,” she said through a mischievous smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of these days I'll make a tumblr post or something about the Necrotic conlang


End file.
